


thanks for the dance (we're joined in the spirit)

by morecircumspect



Series: our steps will always rhyme (you know my love goes with you) [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1920s, Backstory, Big Gay Love Story, Character of Faith, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Kink Exploration, Long, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mirror Sex, Mother-Son Relationship, Multiple Sex Positions, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Richard "Dick" Ellis, Romance, Secret Relationship, Sequel, Sexual Content, Trauma, Various Kinks, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 115,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25220959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morecircumspect/pseuds/morecircumspect
Summary: “I do occasionally like to try my luck, Mr. Barrow.”“I’ve noticed that about you, Mr. Ellis.”It’s always been like this, Richard realises. It’s always been thiseasywith Thomas. The banter, the back-and-forth, that sense of having found a kindred spirit. Someone to be on equal footing with. Something grounding and real, a presence outside these walls, a reminder that the world doesn’t stop at the gates of Buckingham Palace, like he sometimes feels it does.And what a godsend you are, for so many reasons.Sequel toI'll yield to the flood of your beauty.After their getaway in the Yorkshire countryside, it's back to reality for Thomas and Richard both. They each deal with it in drastically different ways, and learn a thing or two in the process - not only about the other, but themselves most of all.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: our steps will always rhyme (you know my love goes with you) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791532
Comments: 183
Kudos: 260





	1. Richard

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up where _I'll yield to the flood of your beauty_ left off. I strongly recommend reading that first if you haven't. Leonard Cohen again provided the title.
> 
> Expect more of what the first story offered and you won't be too surprised/shocked further down the line :) Additional tags/warnings will be provided. Make no mistake, this will be a Long Tale, as hefty as the previous one if not more so. Several colourful OC's will feature and canonical characters expanded on, such as Albert and the unseen Mr. Miller.
> 
> Finally, undying gratitude goes out to athens7, without whom this series would not be the same! Frodo wouldn't have gotten far without Sam <3

_March 1928_

He closes the door behind him with a soft click - even if the light in Mr. Miller’s room is still burning across the hallway, it is late and some of the other male servants may already be asleep - and turns around to lean his weight back against it for a moment, feeling exhaustion fall over him like a thick blanket and settle in his bones all at once. It is making him eye his bed with longing and wish he could just keel over face first and _sleep._

No such luck, though. He brings a hand up to his throat and gets a finger behind the knot of his tie, shimmying it loose and letting out a sigh of relief as the silk slips from his neck. It feels good to liberate himself from its chokehold, and his practiced fingers move on seamlessly to the collar of his shirt, opening the top button and quickly slipping down the row. Once he feels he can breathe, _properly_ , he rests his head back against the door and closes his eyes, trying to remember when was the last time he felt so tired that even the routine task of undressing his bloody self at the end of the day seemed too daunting to tackle.

's Just been one of those days, he supposes. Hell, it's just been one of those _weeks_ , come to think of it, but for some reason it’s only tonight that he’s come away feeling weary to the bone. Over the course of the day, a familiar, dull ache has settled at the base of his spine as well as behind his eyes, and there is an itch in his throat that heralds a cold as sure as the sound of bagpipes playing heralds the start of a new day for the sovereign. _You’ll get used to it,_ a more seasoned courtier had told him when he first witnessed the King’s Piper playing his Scottish reveille as the Great Bell at Westminster struck 8, and after almost ten years with the Royal Household he can attest that yes, one does get used to the whims and whimsies of royalty, but if he never hears another bagpipe again it will be too soon.

Frustrated, he pushes himself away from the door and advances into the room as he continues to disrobe, too roughly, almost ripping a button off his jacket before forcing himself to slow down lest he only create more work for himself by being careless. He’ll have to look at the jacket again in daylight and check for any loose threads that may trip the eye. For now, he hangs it up on the door of his wardrobe, puts his shirt in the hamper, sets his shoes in their place by the bed. There is a certain comfort in the familiarity of the motions he goes through every night, a set sequence he doesn’t need to think about, and he finds it calms him. Helps him decompress as he sheds his day armour piece by piece, until he’s stripped all the way down to his skin and stands nude for a moment in the unlit room, shivering. The attics of Buckingham Palace are always cold, except in the short summer months when it becomes impossible to shift the stuffy heat that settles under the rafters. He takes a clean set of underwear from his linen drawer and slips into it quickly, reminding himself to carry up a hot water bottle tomorrow, especially if his back hasn’t improved by then. Barring Thomas’s hands, it’s the only thing that offers relief sometimes.

He gets into his pajamas and puts on the blue sweater over his pajama top, which finally stops him shivering. These stolen moments before bed are the only opportunity he gets to feel it embracing his shoulders and imagine it is Thomas’s hands, Thomas’s arms embracing him, their weight on his shoulders, however slight, steadying and comforting. Warming. Sadly, it no longer smells the way it did when he first pulled it from his suitcase that night several weeks ago - a smell of woodsmoke and cigarettes and something essentially _Thomas_ \- and pressed it to his nose and mouth, burying his face against the finespun wool as he damn near cried at the thought of Thomas slipping it between his belongings earlier that day as a Valentine’s surprise.

(He had worn the sweater to bed that night, _just the sweater_ , wanting to surround himself with the smell of Thomas, feeling something on his skin that he had worn only recently, and he had covered his face with his arm as he slipped three vaselined fingers in and out of himself, imaging them to be Thomas’s fingers. With the memories still fresh in his mind, and a soreness still lingering between his legs, the fantasy hadn’t been a difficult one to conjure and maintain throughout, and when he pictured Thomas’s eyes on him, watching, assessing, and the words he’d use to tell him just how lewd a sight he presented like this, he’d had to act quickly and pull up the sweater so he didn’t soil it. He remembers the sense of shame he’d felt at having failed to follow Thomas’s instructions. He’d done as Thomas told him on later occasions, but that first night he’d come hard and fast and hot, muffling his cries against his bicep as he kept his fingers buried deep inside himself and his seed streaked across his stomach.)

He doesn’t think tonight is going to be one of those nights, and sadly, that’s how it’s been all week. He is too tired, too mentally and physically exhausted to indulge. It isn’t that he doesn’t miss Thomas - he does, God, he _does_ \- but it’s taken on a different form, not so much an ache that can be dulled and forgotten for the duration of a few minutes as an emptiness, an absence of something that the touch of his hand can’t bring back, not even briefly. He has tried, more than once he has tried, and all he’s been left with in the aftermath is frustration, sorrow and a big, black void roaring inside of him, not just in his chest but everywhere, all over. He found it unbearable, and it has dampened his desire to try again, even though he probably will. At some point - yes, probably - but not tonight.

He switches on the lamp on his little desk - in one of the corners of the room, directly under the narrow skylight window, he’s done his best to create a cozy writing nook for himself - and takes in the state of his room. He left it in rather a hurry this morning, the bed a bit of a mess, the book he’s currently reading - _Great Expectations_ , an old favourite he revisits often, well-thumbed and cracked along the spine from use - balancing on the edge of his bedside table. _Probably won’t get to that tonight either._

He takes a small key from his wallet and uses it to open the top drawer of his desk. It is the only place in his room that is truly private, truly safe from prying eyes, although in case of suspected theft in the Palace he would be ordered to open it for perusal, as has happened a few times during his tenure, so caution is a good thing to have at all times regardless. Still, he would hope that unless he gave cause for an investigation into his character, his diary at least would be safe. He takes it out, along with his fountain pen, and settles into the small space, the legs of the chair scraping across the hardwood floor as he pulls it up to the desk.

He jots a few lines in his diary - not much, just a brief report of his day in shorthand. He didn’t see His Majesty, but spent several hours cleaning various things he dirtied, took a brisk lunch walk around St James’s - just another month, perhaps two, until the weather turns and he may sit on one of the park benches for a while and watch young mothers bring their children to feed the ducks - and shared a smoke break with Mr. Miller, trading the latest palace gossip. Writing it all down makes him wonder what exactly was so taxing today to justify him feeling the way he does, but he can’t pinpoint a single event that explains it. He just knows that the thought of doing it all again tomorrow - the cleaning, the gossip, the same goddamn carousel that just keeps spinning without ever slowing down - grips his throat like a vise, makes it difficult to swallow, although the cold is probably to blame here too. He tells himself he’s just being silly - he misses Thomas, the weather’s been miserable and he’s letting his thoughts run away with him, as usual.

He finishes the factual entry and indulges himself by leafing back through the weeks and months, scanning the pages filled with his handwriting. Most entries are fairly short, even the ones he wrote at the farmhouse in February, because as much as he would like to wax poetic about everything that happened there, he does censor himself and use code even in his private diary just in case. That is the adage he lives his life by - _just in case._ Occasionally, though, some of his true feelings do seep into the page despite his caution. An entry from early January is such an example - short and succinct, it still manages to recall to mind exactly how he’d felt when he wrote it down. _Telegram from T.!_ it reads, exclamation point included. _Came back with a yes (see 1 Jan.). Did not expect but chuffed._

He uses different monikers for Thomas, for no other reason than to throw people off the scent if they ever were to confiscate the diary, although coming up with codenames also serves as amusement to him. Since the farmhouse, he has gleefully added several new aliases to his arsenal and uses them in steady rotation, such as Tompion (after clockmaker Thomas Tompion, a name he’d admittedly never heard until he borrowed a tome titled _From Huygens to Warren - An Evolution of Clocks_ from the palace library and struggled his way through), Cheshire and Ruby Lips. (How Thomas would react if he ever were to find out about this last one in particular is anyone’s guess.)

Sometimes, though, when he does want to log something a little more revealing, he will simply pretend to be describing an encounter with a female. Here, the codename Tuppence (after Agatha Christie’s duo of detectives Tommy and Tuppence) usually comes in handy.

This time, he leafs back all the way to July and his entries from the Yorkshire tour - more specifically, the ones he wrote while at Downton. He has reread them often, and as a result knows them almost by heart, but he still enjoys revisiting them, smiling at the way he’d clearly tried to give his impressions objectively the way he always did, without letting his interest in the young butler colour his reporting, but he hadn’t been entirely successful.

 _17 July (evening). Downton Abbey very prettily situated,_ it says on the day of his arrival. _Charming village, quaint and friendly. Downstairs lot very colourful, not like any run-of-the-mill household. Housekeeper is Mrs. Hughes, Scottish, matriarchal type but can be scary when provoked I imagine. Will be interesting to see her take on Mrs. W. Mrs. Patmore (cook) very loud, rotund and hearty. Food v. good. Daisy (undercook) committed faux pas at dinner by making anti-royalist remark which put Mr. W. and Miss L.’s noses out of joint. Tried to intervene so Lemon didn’t come down too hard on the poor girl and unexpectedly got assistance from Mr. Barrow (butler) who also defended her. Local staff usually too intimidated by Windbag to kick up fuss but these folks are different. Refreshing. Interesting days ahead._

_17 July (night). Couldn’t sleep. Every house has different sounds, different smells. Head v. full and bed v. small. Went downstairs to get milk and came across Mr. B. doing wine inventory. Asked rather sharply if I was lost and seemed to think I was up to no good (possibly clandestine meeting w/ one of the maids? Noticed one or two pretty faces among them). Eventually pointed me to the larder and said to help myself. Drank it cold and kept him company for approx. 20 mins. He was standoffish at first - which I thought was understandable, given Windbag’s little spiel earlier in the day - but he quickly mellowed and soon I saw re-emerge the affable man who showed me to my room. He asked me if I have often trouble sleeping. 'Only when traveling,' I said. 'Don't you travel a lot?' - same tone used when enquiring about the very hale Mr. Miller and the puzzling concept of two valets. A sharp-witted man, Mr. Barrow._

He smiles at his own restraint here, complimenting Thomas’s wit and his wit only, when he could easily have filled pages about the man even at that point. But he is only being sentimental by reading all this again, when in fact he doesn’t need any written count to remember the way he’d admired the butler’s confident strut and the straightness of his shoulders as he preceded him through the hallways, at ease in his own domain, with that note of pride and cockiness in his voice as he showed him the lay of the land. He also doesn’t need it to remember that little jolt in his stomach when he walked into the servants’ hall and realised he’d caught the then unseated butler by himself with a cup of tea and a crossword puzzle, or when he happened to be nearby as Mrs. Hughes distractedly spoke to Mr. Barrow and used his first name without noticing. He’d even made a note of it in his report of the day, presenting it as merely a funny incident when at the time, finding out Thomas’s first name had felt like a dizzying act of intimacy almost as thrilling as a stolen touch or kiss.

How far they have come since those distant summer days at the very start of it all, how close they have become despite being far apart, so close that Richard is sitting here wearing Thomas’s sweater, poring over writings drenched with his presence, his head and heart full of memories of their short days together in February, memories of touching the man’s body, exploring it and loving it in ways that almost make him blush to think of in hindsight.

Not to mention the things he had let Thomas do to him in return.

He's always been willing to indulge his lovers, to please them however they asked him to and do so generously, but the way he was with Thomas during those two days... He doesn't know exactly how he feels about all that yet. He’s experienced pleasure beyond his wildest imaginings, and he doesn't regret a single minute of it, but in retrospect he was so... so _pathetic_ during those moments, so needy and unlike the way he normally acts with the men he beds. Apparently Thomas had unwittingly unlocked something inside of him, something that had lain dormant for a long time, all but forgotten, but it’s wide awake now and he isn’t sure that’s going to change anytime soon.

He sighs. All this - these memories, and the way they are already starting to seem distant now that he’s back in London, and has been for a while - is making him feel the absence of Thomas even more keenly, because if he were here, Richard is sure he would immediately know what to say to dispel these shadows closing in on him, just as he did at the farmhouse. Thomas is a riddle in that respect - at times so insecure and full of doubts, at times a pillar of strength, and the way he’d taken the lead in some of their intimate moments was nothing short of astonishing. Richard had been so fucking eager to follow. Far too eager probably. After all, a man who gets so overwhelmed he can't even speak is hardly the height of attractiveness.

But Richard still remembers how incredible he had felt in those moments themselves, how safe and carefree, and how Thomas - after some initial concern - hadn’t seemed put off by it, rather to the contrary - he’d been so _good_ , so caring, if not a little bewildered by it all. It is only afterwards, by the grace of time and distance, that Richard looks back on all that and wonders what in the world came over him there in that farmhouse. How had an assertive man, who is generally in control of himself, been reduced to something so weak and slavish in the space of two short days? And how could Thomas not have been repulsed by the transformation?

Richard can’t exactly boast of having a whole lot of experience in this field, having only his parents and grandparents as role models in terms of what a long term relationship should entail, but in his view a man - yes, even a man like him - should be someone for his partner to rely on, always ready to offer relief and support, to - to provide for his companion’s needs without ever stumbling or stuttering, and Richard can't help but feel he has failed to pass muster in that regard. Even now, weeks after they shut the door on their charmed two days in the country, he can’t seem to resume what he’d once considered his normal daily routine. Rather, instead of gritting his teeth and just fucking carrying on, here he is, clinging to a piece of clothing and pining for words of comfort.

Like a school girl with a crush, as Thomas would say. _Pathetic._

But then, after all that, Thomas still gave him the sweater. Even if he had thought about it, Richard would've never found the courage to ask for it - asking for a little lock of hair had been nerve-wracking enough, imagine being so cheeky as to set one’s sights on a piece of clothing! - but it is all the more precious to him because of what it represents: Thomas’s generosity of spirit and caring nature, and on top of that, his apparently instinctive ability to provide reassurance whenever and however needed. With that sweater, he had seemed to want to reinforce the words he’d spoken in the bathroom that last morning - _I’m always there._ Such a gesture surely means that Thomas in fact _wasn’t_ repulsed or disenchanted with Richard’s behaviour at the farmhouse, and that Richard can surrender to vulnerability without shame?

He rubs at his eyes tiredly. It's no use. He's only going in circles, playing the prosecution and the defense at the same time - all he's going to achieve at this rate is a headache on top of everything else he’s dealing with. He closes the diary and places it back into the drawer, briefly stroking the lid of the old biscuit tin in which he keeps his small personal treasures and mementos - a few photographs, a seashell from a visit to the waterfront, the ticket stub from his train journey to London when he was seventeen as well as the St. Christopher’s pin his Mum gave him, and the little lock of hair he took off of Thomas’s head, still wrapped in a kerchief - but he doesn’t take it out tonight. Before switching off the light and face-planting into the bed, however, he takes out a bundle of his Mum’s letters, the one on top being the most recent one from just a few days ago. He takes it out of its envelope and folds its open, carefully drawing his palm across to flatten it out.

He gets letters from his Mum regularly, usually one every week or so, and usually filled with tidbits about her days, about people from her and Dad’s social circle, and other things that occupy her mind, often told with a fair dose of dry wit and the occasional injection of caustic humour. And so, too, begins this letter, with the latest in a series of ongoing hostilities between herself and the next door neighbour, Mrs. Howard.

_Dearest Richard,_

_Mrs. H. is at it again. She just can't accept the fact that I'm not actually poisoning her primroses and that I'm just that much better than her at gardening. Since she can't beat me in this field, she inevitably ends up making her usual enquiries about grandchildren, hoping to see me break down in tears, I suppose. As she couldn’t be dissuaded from telling me, she has two now (grandchildren, that is) and a third one coming soon, despite the fact that she is three years younger than me, a fact she reminded me of quite gleefully. I congratulated her, of course (on the baby, not the three years age difference) and was tempted to express my hope this poor child won’t inherit its father’s ears like the first two did, but I bit my tongue and was very proud of that. She primly asked me to pass on her regards to you, but I’m sure she will have forgotten about that bout of reluctant courtesy the minute she turned on her heels, so don’t feel obligated to send yours back._

_Your father is still recovering from one of his black moods. You know how he gets whenever Uncle David writes to pester him for money. Not that I blame him, but I do wish he'd learn to take it a bit more in stride after twenty years. Your uncle is a good man, but he can’t seem to hold down a job to save his life (literally) or support his family, for that matter. Dad tried to contact Aunt Martha, to ask her if she could look in on David since she lives so much nearer, but you can imagine how that went. Your dad has the misfortune of being the only responsible son in a herd of black sheep, and age only makes it more difficult to bear, I'm afraid. He says hello, by the way. Now he's telling me to ask you about that green tie he made you order from Harrods. (I would've remembered anyway.) Which reminds me... would it be a bother to send me another one of those lotions I picked up in London last time I visited? Ah, on second thought, make that two. I’ll give one to the butcher’s wife, Mrs. Clark, who was complaining of chapped hands the other day. I’m enclosing what should be enough money to cover the cost._

Here, Richard smiles to himself. (Well, he's been smiling throughout, but now he's well and truly grinning at the page like a loon.) No matter how many times he tries to explain to his Mum that he is a grown man who earns his own keep, she keeps finding ways to put a little extra cash into his hands, with the excuse that London is expensive and ‘they’ don’t pay him enough. The money in the envelope well exceeded the amount required to purchase two jars of lotion, and trying to send back the spare change would not be appreciated.

_On an unrelated note, please give again my thanks to your friend Thomas for repairing the clock. Yesterday it saved me from arriving late to my hairdresser’s appointment. I had it seen by a professional last week as per your suggestion and he confirmed it’s a rare piece, for exactly the reasons your friend said! He was also impressed with the repair job, and I wanted to pass that on. After all, you said quite a bit of time was spent on it._

(Richard blushes, as he is probably doomed to do for all eternity when someone references that bloody clock in any context. Handing the thing over several weeks ago had been nothing short of an ordeal.)

_I'm sorry, I know I'm digressing. And to think I used to tease Hughie because he - by his own admission - used to ramble more than a priest during a sermon. But I reckon it's only natural that I should pick up some of his habits now that he's gone. It’s how we keep our departed loved ones close. Which brings me to the main reason I'm sending you this letter. I didn't say anything back in February, when you showed me the photograph you found and asked me those questions, because I didn't want to get your hopes up... but after spending the last week and a half in the attic, I've finally found what I was looking for._

_See, I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you, Dickie. I was shocked when I saw the photograph, because I was the one who took it, one summer afternoon over thirty years ago, in my brother’s backyard. And what is more, you were there, though you were too young to remember. You were just a little bub at the time, two years old, riding your uncle’s knee. I remember that very clearly. Hugh’s friend J. was there that day, and we all spent a very pleasant couple of hours in the backyard, having cold drinks. J. had a camera and… I don’t remember who first suggested it, but I took a photograph of them. I have never seen the result until you brought it home a few weeks ago, so you can imagine my surprise._

_You said you want to try and find J., which I understand and wholeheartedly support. Sadly I don’t know what became of him. Hughie only said their friendship fell apart and I think J. ended up moving away from York. His last name was Shaw, but I’m not sure how much good it’ll do you to know that. There must be hundreds by his name in Yorkshire. As to his occupation, I think he may have been a photographer, either by trade or for pleasure. What I can tell you for certain is that he seemed like a very nice gentleman, if not somewhat reserved. I remember thinking he was very different from Hugh in that respect. But he was courteous and very kind. I dearly hope you’ll be able to find him and get some answers to your questions._

_Back to why I mentioned searching the attic earlier - when you were here in February, you rightly pointed out that taking the photograph around York for strange eyes to look at may not be a good idea. After you left, however, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there might be more photographs in the unsorted boxes your father and I picked up after your uncle’s funeral, which I had delayed going through because it all felt too raw at the time. You know what a silly, sentimental woman your mother has become in her old age. Anyroad, I at last tackled the task last week, spending one or two hours every day upstairs going through boxes of Hugh’s belongings, sorting out clothes for the goodwill and throwing out what even the poor won’t know what to do with. I have set aside a few things - books, pens, men’s accessories, the like - for you to look at when you visit next. I thought you might like to have something of your uncle’s to remember him by, Dickie, considering your special bond._

_Blimey, look at the length of this letter! I do ramble too much, don’t I? You must be gnashing your teeth by now, thinking ‘How much more of this drivel until she gets to the point?’ Well, I’m about to, but I hope you don’t begrudge me the pleasure of spinning a little story around my discovery, of which I’m quite proud. I eventually stumbled upon a box with more photographs and among them, I found another picture of J. that you can use in your search. There is only the one, and I dared not risk including it in this letter in case the Royal Mail loses it, so I am keeping it safe until your next visit, or until I can make it down to London. The image is a little grainy, but I hope that it will help you, along with what little information I could provide._

_Oh dear, is it really that late? I have to go and get this posted in a hurry, I promised Mrs. Wright I'd lend her a hand in making the dessert for Mr. W.’s 60th (Mrs. H. is invited to the dinner as well, I can't wait to see her face when she'll try that delicious treacle tart - it should sweeten even her sour disposition). Take care of yourself darling and dress warm._

_With love from us both,  
_ _Mum._

_P.S. I am now cleaning up the rest of the attic as well. I know, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. Better to do these things while I’m still hale and able. I found some of your toys and school things from when you were little. I don’t suppose your old spinning top would give you much entertainment these days, but I am holding on to these mementos for the sake of nostalgia - the curse of old age!_

As Richard tucks the letter back into the envelope and puts the bundle back into the drawer, he considers for a moment taking out the leather portfolio with stationery and at least beginning a reply to his Mum - putting it off for too long will make her worry, and the last thing he wants is to give her cause for concern - but he lets the thought slip from his mind, closing the drawer instead and locking it. It’s the same routine he’s gone through for a few nights now, and each time his good intentions have come to nothing. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to write to her or isn’t grateful for the effort she took on his behalf - he does and he is - but he finds that the thought of putting pen to paper puts him off of even attempting it. His mind is too muddled and he needs to get his head right. Better to wait a few days more than to send off a letter that ends up triggering that sixth sense she has when it comes to sniffing out when something’s not quite right on his end.

The truth of it, though, is that her news about finding a picture of Johnnie he can pass around at any pub in York was the highlight of his week - that, and of course the letter from Downton Abbey that found its way into his hands yesterday, to which he has yet to respond as well. He wants to tell Thomas so badly about his mother’s find in the attic - he couldn’t say why, but over the course of the past few weeks finding Johnnie has grown to be paramount in his mind, an almost God-appointed quest that he must fulfil come hell or high water. He tries to prepare himself for disappointment - Johnnie could be anywhere, he could have moved away from England or he may even be dead - but in his heart he knows that if he were to come up empty-handed at the end of it all, he’d be gutted.

He’d be gutted because… finding that picture had unlocked something inside of him, those two grinning faces - one so like his own - and the relaxed familiarity of the men’s poses had burrowed under his skin. They seemed happy, comfortable in each other’s proximity, and Richard wishes more than anything that his uncle was still alive to tell him who this man was, what they had been to each other, and why it had ended (because it obviously had, this Mum had even confirmed it in her letter). The fact that he never knew about Johnnie, never heard about him or about any other special friends his uncle might have had, makes him wonder if he ever truly knew the man, and that saddens him deeply.

Almost as unbearable as that, however, is the certainty that he saw no one resembling Johnnie at the wake or at the funeral, and he attended both start to finish. While at the farmhouse, he had shared with Thomas his fear of leaving no one to mourn or remember him after his death, so it’s possible that he is overly sensitive to this, but the fact that Johnnie hadn’t made an appearance to pay final respects convinces him more than anything that he may be chasing a dead man.

But dead or alive, he isn’t going to find the man by sitting here ruminating. He’ll have to be patient until he has saved up enough half days to make the trip back up to York and start doing some proper gumshoe work - and that’ll be in no fewer than six months, if he’s lucky.

He sighs at the sobering thought. But it is the grim reality of his situation, and none of these fancy notions are going to change that. _No choice but to get on with it and keep putting one foot in front of the other._

He switches off the lamp, but before getting into bed, bends the knee on the hardwood floor and folds his hands together in prayer, closing his eyes as he takes a moment to be still and let the words well up inside of him rather than rattle them off.

“I thank you, God, for the day you have given me, and for the beauty of your creation. Guide me waking, oh Lord, and guard me sleeping; that awake I may watch with Christ, and asleep I may rest in peace. Bless all those I love, this night and for ever. Bless His Majesty, King George V, and Her Majesty, Queen Mary. Keep safe my father and mother. Keep safe Thomas Barrow. Keep safe Johnnie Shaw, that I may find him alive and in good health. Amen.”

He rises and gets into bed, realising only when he pulls the covers up over himself that he is still wearing the sweater, but he’s too tired to do anything about it and can’t be bothered to, really. Seconds later, he drops off to sleep.


	2. Thomas

“Are you quite… _well_ , Barrow?”

Thomas’s eyes snap towards the table and find three faces turned in his direction with varying degrees of curiosity - with the exception of Lord Grantham’s, as he is immersed in his morning paper. Lady Mary, who has come down to have breakfast with her husband this morning as she occasionally does, raises an eyebrow at him. Sometimes, even when asked a direct question, an answer is not required. This time, one clearly is expected.

“Yes, milady. Perfectly well, thank you.”

“Only you seem rather preoccupied this morning,” she states, bringing her fork to her mouth for a small, distinguished bite and following it up with a small, distinguished sip of tea. For all her tomboyish ways, Thomas has yet to catch her so much as holding a knife the wrong way.

“Leave him _alone_ , darling,” says Mr. Talbot from behind his own newspaper, whichever one Lord Grantham didn’t want first. The grey old wolf is still the alpha in this household.

“I am only making an observation, Henry,” she retorts. “Barrow is quite capable of answering for himself.”

“And he just did,” points out Talbot calmly, with a curl of his lip and a twinkle in his eye. “Let a man’s thoughts be his own, for God’s sake.”

“Are you saying I’m nosy?”

“Did I say that? Did anyone here hear those words coming out of my mouth?” In mock exasperation, Talbot looks at his father-in-law, who chuckles and reaches down to play with Teo’s ears distractedly, wisely choosing not to interfere with the marital dispute. Branson just looks on, grinning, like a spectator watching a cockfight. Seeing that no support is coming from either direction, Talbot turns back to Mary. “You wouldn’t care for an empty-headed butler, would you darling? The poor man has to stand there and watch us read the newspaper, for crying out loud, let him think about whatever he wants to think about. You have my blessing, Barrow.”

Thomas affects a smile as he inclines his head in tacit acknowledgment. Talbot can be a bit pompous, but Thomas likes him well enough… not least on account of George. Poor little tyke never knew his own Papa, but Talbot seems to have taken on the job very commendably as far as he can see - and he has been watching very closely ever since Talbot appeared on the scene. “Thank you, sir. But I’m quite all right, I assure you. I got a letter in the morning post that I’m keen to read, that’s all.”

He surprises himself by being this forthcoming - he wouldn’t normally volunteer such personal information unless directly prompted (and even then…) - but a small truth like this is harmless enough. Things would become a little more dire if they were to ask follow-up questions, but that isn’t Lady Mary’s style. Lord Grantham’s, neither.

He should watch himself, though. Lady Mary had the truth of it when she accused him of being preoccupied - he has been since the moment he was handed Richard’s letter earlier that morning, in the knowledge he’ll have to carry it around in his inside pocket until he finds a little time and privacy to read it - and he shouldn’t give cause for further inquiries. If Anna tells it true, he already narrowly escaped repercussions last summer when he was found wanting in Lady Mary’s eyes (apparently, the word _sacking_ had been dropped after he stormed out of the library heated and humiliated), it wouldn’t do to find himself in disfavour again with that episode still somewhat fresh in everyone’s mind.

Thankfully, though, he predicted correctly - no one cares about his letter, least of all Lady Mary, who has received a letter of her own, from her sister. “Edith writes, Papa,” she says. “She sends her love.”

“Hm?” reacts Lord Grantham. Whatever he is reading in the paper must be riveting. “Ah, splendid, splendid. How is she? How is Marigold?”

“All are doing well. Apparently Marigold can spell her own name now.”

“That’s my clever girl. And the unborn Hexham heir?”

“Still unborn, Papa. Bertie said he’d telephone when she goes into labour, he knows how keen we all are for news.”

“Isn’t she due very soon?” Branson asks.

“Should be the next week or so. Really, Tom, you were there when Dr. Clarkson told us she was about a month along at the time of the royal visit.”

As the conversation floats along, with no more attention given to the butler’s woolgathering or personal correspondence, Thomas makes another round with the teapot, following the appropriate order which means he serves Branson last. Maybe it’s because the letter in his pocket is keeping thoughts of Richard at the forefront of his mind even more than usually is the case, but when he gets to Branson he is suddenly reminded of the things he’d said about the man while cradled in Richard’s arms back at the farmhouse. _That jumped-up class traitor,_ or words to that effect. Harsh, perhaps, but nothing he wouldn’t say again when asked.

“Thank you, Barrow,” mutters Branson before Thomas moves away. It’s the guilt speaking, of course, betraying more than anything that he doesn’t belong at this table. He isn’t one of these people, never will be, and he surely knows it, too. But that adorable little girl sure adores her Papa, so Thomas swallows his bile and nods. He doubts he’ll ever offer to shake the man’s hand, but he finds he’s not particularly inclined to dwell on his dislike right now. It’s much more pleasant to indulge in the memories of spending a lazy hour or two cuddling and snoozing by the fire in the middle of the day - oh, the luxury - and of Richard saying ridiculous, precious things like _you have utterly enchanted me, Tommy-bear._

Infuriating little shit that he is.

Sometimes it all feels like a dream. Those charmed two days in their own little world, no strange eyes prying, nothing to plan ahead for except putting a meal on the table at the end of the day, surely those can’t actually have been real. He keeps thinking there must be some sort of catch, something he overlooked or didn’t think of. Things that good don’t normally come his way, do they? That’s what he’s learned to expect.

But whenever he gets to thinking like that, he takes out the letter, the _special_ letter, and feels again that flutter in his belly when he reads those words and remembers exactly how they’d affected him the first time, minutes before Richard came into the room carrying a breakfast tray, with a proud grin that Thomas has no trouble picturing even now.

Richard does have a way of lighting up any room he walks into, filling it up with his presence and charm before he’s even opened his mouth, although the constant chatter certainly is part of it. Thomas misses that most of all. When he thinks of Richard - which is almost all the time - the first thing he pictures is his smile, so warm and unrestrained and goddamn _sincere_ , like Thomas is the best thing that's ever happened to him and the man just can't believe his luck. And that's another thing Thomas misses - the fact that when Richard looks at him like that he doesn't feel mocked or on edge. He feels cherished, and allowed, no, _invited_ to cherish in return.

He likes to think he did all right in that regard, back at the farmhouse, even if he was rusty at first. He has so little experience at this sort of thing, really - being one of a pair, trying to make a relationship work when sharing a space. It is so much easier in letters, somehow - he can weigh his words more carefully before committing them to paper, be a better, more thoughtful version of himself. While in reality, in _person_ , he doesn’t have that option. In reality, he has a bit of a temper that he can’t hide, flies off the handle at the drop of a hat, at every perceived slight. He often regrets it afterwards, but by then things have been said that cannot be unsaid, feelings hurt and wounds inflicted.

He doesn’t know how or why Richard puts up with him. But, he does. With the patience of a saint and a dogged belief in Thomas’s good nature that is quite frankly baffling and doesn’t feel earned. Thomas is still waiting, always waiting, for the other shoe to drop one of these days, for Richard to have an awakening and realise he can do better.

But whatever happens from here, no one can take those two precious days away from them. Not in a million years. And so he will defiantly stand here and indulge in his favourite memories all he likes - no one’s going to be any the wiser so long as he plays the part that is expected of him, and that he can definitely do. He’s been trained for it since he was fourteen years old.

After breakfast, the crowd of four disperses into different directions - Lord Grantham goes out for his morning walk with Teo, Branson and Talbot are off to the dealership and Lady Mary heads upstairs to speak to her mother while Thomas and Albert clear the table. There is only the one footman now (such a stark contrast to when he first joined the household all those years ago) but it’s not worth calling up a maid for and Thomas doesn’t mind pitching in occasionally. Hell, he reckons he’s lucky he’s still got a footman at all - at Sir Mark’s, it was just him doing _all_ the serving and the cleaning up after. As a matter of fact, it was just him most of the time, him and that dull old couple in that big, empty, depressing house that had seen better days.

Rather a humbling experience, that.

When the breakfast room is in order, Thomas asks Albert to wind and synchronise the ground floor clocks and gives him his pocket watch to read the correct time off of. He’s been teaching the lad to care for the clocks, like he taught Jimmy and then Andy, he supposes, in hopes that for once his teachings won’t be wasted on someone who ends up buggering off to greener pastures a couple years later.

With Albert deployed on a task that should keep him busy for a bit, Thomas retreats to his pantry and takes out the unopened letter as he’s sat behind his desk, holding it reverently between his fingers. Eyes tracing the graceful lines that spell his name in ink. He picks up his letter opener and gently slices it along the top of the envelope, feeling his heart rate pick up in anticipation as he takes out the letter and opens it. The fold in the paper is crisp, and he carefully smooths it out against his knee. Three pages this time. You’d think that being a royal valet, even a second one, wouldn’t leave one with enough idle time to write novels like this on the side. Smiling to himself, and inwardly berating himself for being so damn _giddy_ , Thomas lifts his eyes to the top of the first page. The date is that of two days ago and the letter was written at Buckingham Palace, not exactly surprising even though he’s also had letters from Richard in the past that were sent from various royal estates dotted around the country, such as Sandringham and Balmoral. But for the past couple weeks, His Majesty has been remarkably stationary.

_Dear Thomas,_

Ah - not going to be one of _those_ letters, then. A pity, that, but Thomas isn’t disappointed. If it had been - one of _those_ letters - he’d probably have had to put it back unread and carry it around in his pocket all fucking day until bedtime. It would have been a distraction even then, but it would have been preferable to having to serve lunch with a bulge in his pants and trying to find a quiet place to rub himself off after.

_Dear Thomas,_

_“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,  
_ _Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.”_

_I was reminded of these words earlier today, as I found myself back at the all too familiar task of mending H.M.’s ceremonial riding jacket. He popped a seam for the third time in two months and I’ll leave you to draw your conclusions about that. Am I breaking protocol by telling you this? Possibly, but to tell you the truth, I’m less bothered about such things as time goes by. ‘Creeps in this petty pace,’ as the Bard said it so well. Anyroad, there are entirely too many rules, written and unwritten, to be at this job for as long as I have and not break any._

_I apologise if this seems rather a glum start to a letter, but I am feeling a bit of that tonight, I suppose. Polishing too many buttons will do that to a bloke. It makes the mind wander, and not always to places that make for pleasant dwelling. I assure you I am doing quite well, and I hope the same can be said of you. I still read your latest letter often, as it gives me so much joy to read of your days, however mundane you think they may be. I know your feelings about D. are ambivalent at best, but it struck me as a good place to be from the first, and not just because of the one thing that attracts me in it most of all. I think of it frequently, and when I do, I like to picture you as I first saw you that day in July, in the driveway, albeit a little less flustered, perhaps.* I was reading about it in my diary just the other night and remembered it again clear as day._

_(* That wasn’t meant to be a slight to you, by the way. Traveling in Mr. W.’s wake, one gets used to seeing flustered butlers - so trust me, you were far from the first.)_

A knock on the door interrupts his reading, and he looks up to find Mrs. Hughes poking her head in the door. He realises too late that he is still grinning as he meets her gaze - and Mrs. Hughes would be the very last person to miss something like that, no matter how quickly he forces his face into a more neutral expression.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Barrow, only I was looking for Albert.”

“He is winding the clocks, Mrs. Hughes, can I help you instead?”

“Oh, no, it isn’t as pressing as all that. I’ll speak to him later.” She lingers in the doorway, and he guesses what’s coming even before she ventures a conversational, “From your sister?”

Meaning the letter, of course. She’d seen him tucking it into his jacket at breakfast.

“My sister,” he says, stalling for a second. He has to physically restrain himself from jamming the letter back into its envelope, away from view. _Silly,_ he tells himself. “Yes, exactly.”

“How is she?”

“Ah,” he says, reaching mentally for an appropriate response, “yes, she’s doing very well, thank you.”

“Your relationship is getting more… solid, I take it.”

Thomas hums and brushes his tie. Dear God, when did Mrs. Hughes start cultivating such an interest in his personal life and how does he make it _stop_? “You could say that, I suppose, yeah.”

“You must be glad of that,” she states, nodding as though that seals the matter. He hopes it does. “I know I am.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.” He smiles at her and nods back, a polite but definitive sign on his part that this ends the conversation for him. Thankfully, she takes the hint.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your reading. Shall I close the door?”

“If you would be so kind.”

He slowly counts to ten, waiting for her footfalls to fade away before returning to Richard’s letter. Despite the very real possibility that he may get interrupted again, he reads slowly, wanting to savour and absorb every word rather than rush through as he would do with any other correspondence. Richard writes often - two letters per week isn’t anything out of the ordinary - but every letter still feels like a gift, not to be squandered.

_Please, when you write to me next, tell me in as much detail as you care to of the latest news from the house and the village. Don’t be afraid to bore me. Something is always brewing in a village like Downton - farmers’ disputes, some quarrel between this and that committee, some tittletattle going around. Are there any weddings planned? What is the latest on the hospital? It seems there is always something to report on that score. Lest I forget, has Lady Hexham given birth yet? I am sure Lord G. is keeping everything crossed for a grandson, but I’d put a month’s wages on a girl, for what it’s worth. I am sure you find me very silly for even caring, as you’ll inevitably tell me in your next letter._

_Very little of interest to report from here, although Mr. M. shared with me a juicy piece of gossip about the Prince of W. (who else?), which I will not share here. Suffice it to say that dear David is currently in hot water with his Papa and with the PM, and if he doesn’t practise more discretion, you’ll read about his latest transgressions in the papers soon enough. Bertie can’t but shine by comparison, especially now he’s settled with wife and child. H.M. does dote on that little girl. Anyroad, don’t make the mistake of thinking Mr. M. came to me with that tidbit out of the kindness of his heart. I had to trade him a rather valuable card from my own hand, but I’d say we both came away satisfied._

_You asked about Mr. M. in one of your recent letters. You observed he is very young to be as high up on the totem pole as he is, and you’re right -_

“Mr. Barrow?” Albert, from just outside the door. “One of the clocks in the drawing room is making a strange sound.”

Thomas folds away the letter. “Which one? Is it the Knibb?”

The door opens. “Yes, Mr. Barrow. It was already like that, I swear I didn’t touch it.”

Thomas drums his fingers on his desk. He isn’t terribly fond of Albert’s habit of apologising upfront for mistakes he didn’t even commit but is at some risk of being told off for - it’s beneath the dignity of a first footman. The lad needs to grow a thicker skin. “Of course, Albert, it wouldn’t be the first time the Knibb acted up. What sound does it make?”

Albert thinks for a second, tipping his head to the side and furrowing his brow under his thick, untameable forelock. “It’s sort of… _krr, krr, krr._ ”

“Right.” Thomas sighs and slips the letter back into his jacket. “Bring it to the yard, Albert, and we’ll take a look at it.”

“Right away, Mr. Barrow.” Before Thomas can ask for his pocket watch back, or tell Albert Mrs. Hughes is looking for him, the lad has turned on his heels, darting down the hallway and up the stairs.

 _Well, he certainly is eager, I’ll give him that,_ Mrs. Hughes had said when Thomas told her it was his intention to give Albert Andy’s former position. _To go from hall boy to first footman overnight is an awfully big leap, Mr. Barrow, but he’s your responsibility, not mine. If you’re willing to take the risk and train him from the ground up, I won’t raise any objections._

Thomas gets up and leaves the pantry, sticking his head into Mrs. Hughes’s sitting room on his way outside to let her know he’ll send Albert straight her way once they’re done doing clock repairs. Then he heads into the yard, picking up an apron, sleeve covers and toolbox on the way. It’s not too cold outside for a dreary morning in March, which is just as well. He shrugs out of his jacket and gets himself ready. Before long, he is joined by Albert, who carefully places the clock on the table and opens the case so Thomas can get his hands inside.

“All right, let’s see what the problem is. Have you finished winding all the other clocks, Albert?”

“Yes, Mr. Barrow, I have. Do you need me to do anything else, or can I stay and watch?”

Thomas nods, pleased that Albert asked to stay. “Sit down, Albert. I would like you to learn to do easy repairs yourself, if you take to it.”

The young man beams as though Thomas just handed him a year’s worth in wages. Probably because the alternative would be polishing silver, Thomas reckons.

Albert pulls up a chair and sits down close by to observe attentively while Thomas examines the movement within the case. He and the Knibb are like old friends almost, and he quickly finds the source of the problem. It turns out to be nothing too complicated, which for educational purposes is just as well. So instead of making quick work of it and rushing back to continue reading Richard’s letter, he takes the time to name the different parts of the escapement and explain every step of the procedure - in the proper terms, because the lad is clever enough, no need to dumb it down - as he works, occasionally looking up to check if Albert is still following. Not once is he disappointed, and after a while Albert even starts asking questions that prove he has been paying attention.

He enjoys doing it. Teaching someone a skill - used to be he only enjoyed it for the chance to show off how good he was at his job, and only wanted the position of butler because he saw the respect Carson’s subordinates gave him and wanted some of that for himself. Never in a million years had he expected to enjoy the mentoring aspect of it as much as he does.

If old O’Brien could see him now…

He smiles to himself as he pauses a moment before finishing that thought. If O’Brien could see him now, she’d sneer and tell him he’s gone soft in his old age. She already had once, if memory serves, and that was even before he turned thirty. Incredible how quickly time goes by and the years creep up on one.

_Creeps in this petty pace..._

It isn’t like Richard to be so… defeatist. The man Thomas has come to know would stand outside in a thunderstorm until he was drenched and still call it a refreshing little sprinkle.

The challenge with Richard, though, is to know the difference between sincerity and pretense. He is a master at it, after all - good enough that he may convince even himself.

“Mr. Barrow, can I ask you something else?” Albert interrupts his train of thought. “Not related to the clock?”

“Of course, Albert, what is it?” Distractedly, Thomas works his tongue around his mouth, realising only now that in his impatience to read Richard’s letter he hasn’t even taken a smoke break yet, and he sits up to stretch his lower back as it’s starting to ache a bit from being bent over. Yet another sign he isn’t as spry as he once was.

“Back in July…” Albert clears his throat. “I’ve always wondered, how did you persuade Mr. Ellis to switch sides?”

Thomas snorts. “Not much persuasion needed there. I barely had to ask.”

“Wasn’t that risky, though? How did you know he wouldn’t up and report us all for conspiracy and treason?”

Thomas shrugs. “I talked to the man, got a feel of his character. Didn’t seem like the type to do something like that.”

“Don’t you…” Albert clears his throat again and lowers his voice, even though they are completely alone in the yard and anyone inside the house would have to strain _really_ hard to hear them. “Don’t you think he agreed to it because it was you who asked?”

At this, Thomas freezes - a small, involuntary reaction, but a reaction nonetheless - and forces himself to wait a few seconds, and breathe, before responding as evenly as he can. “Meaning?”

“Well, you - you got on, didn’t you?” Albert is starting to look slightly panicked. “You and him… you had a rapport?”

Thomas nods. “We struck up a friendship, yeah,” he says, noncommittal. “We did.”

“See, I think that’s… that’s wonderful,” Albert stammers. “I hope to one day have a - a special friend like that.”

Thomas slowly wipes his greasy hands on a piece of cloth and puts it aside when he’s done, all with carefully measured movements. His mind is spinning, and he finds he can’t look at Albert, can’t speak to say he’s understood his meaning. Of all the people in the house, he thought - _hoped_ \- Albert was still unaware of his true nature, but apparently that isn’t the case. _No longer_ the case.

_Who told him. Who /the fuck/ told him._

He should have known, really. He should have known that he’ll never ever be able to wipe the slate clean while he works in this house. It happened before, with Andy, and it’s happening again. They’ll never let him catch a break. The thought heats his blood like liquid fire.

But at the same time as he’s thinking all this and feeling all this, he can also see Albert seems about ready to pass out from fear, and the magnitude of what he’s just learned sinks in. Would Albert look so terrified if he knew, truly knew for sure? Was he just acting on a _hunch_?

“Listen, Albert, I -”

He abruptly stops when he catches movement by the door and feels Albert nearly jumping out of his skin beside him. Such a beginner’s mistake really, but he can hardly blame the lad for being on edge.

“Hello,” smiles Anna. “The butler doing clock repair - if that isn’t a sign of the modern times we live in, I don’t know what is.”

“I don’t mind,” Thomas says defensively. It slips out that way before he can stop himself. “Albert was eager to learn.”

“I don’t suppose you could spare him for five minutes, then? I need to fetch something for Johnnie in the village, but Lady Mary has got me on something at the moment. I thought Albert might like a chance to get out of the house for a bit after lunch.” She winks at him.

“I mean… sure, unless Mr. Barrow -?” Albert glances in Thomas’s direction with pleading eyes, but Thomas pretends not to notice. There’s a heavy rock lodged under his ribs where his stomach used to be, and while he tells himself he’s being needlessly paranoid, the promise of a few minutes alone in the yard to collect himself prevails. He nods permission, and feels a flash of guilt at the look of quiet despair on Albert’s face.

_Fuck._

“Come, Albert, I’ll give you some money for the errand. You can pick up a new ribbon for Lady Mary’s hat while you’re at it.”

Meekly, Albert gets up. “Thank you, Mr. Barrow, it was very interesting.”

“Report to Mrs. Hughes straight after, Albert, she was looking for you earlier.” He makes sure to keep looking at his hands inside the clock until Anna and Albert have disappeared into the house, only then does he allow himself a moment to sit up, lean his head back and take a deep, steadying breath.

He… could’ve handled that better, couldn’t he.

He makes sure his hands are clean before he reaches for his jacket, checking for the letter _\- still there -_ and then establishing that, as he expected, he hasn’t got any bloody cigarettes on him at the moment.

_Double fuck!_

He decides to focus on the clock instead - not much left to do except running a final check before closing it up - and it helps, but when he wants to verify the time on his pocket watch for synchronisation, he realises Albert still has it on him. Muttering a curse under his breath, he throws down his tools and nearly topples over his chair as he gets up and strides into the house, still in apron and sleeve covers, to get cigarettes and something to read the bloody time off of.

“Whoa, Mr. Barrow,” chirps Daisy, who he bumps into just outside the boot room on his way back outside, “what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

(Yeah - why he ever thought he’d get the same degree of respect Carson did as butler, he isn’t quite sure.)

“‘s Nothing, Daise,” he says gruffly. “Just one of those mornings, I suppose. A smoke will set me straight. Put it off for too long.”

“You have an addiction, Mr. Barrow,” she teases. “Sucking smoke into your lungs can’t be healthy.”

“I’m aware, Mrs. Parker, but thank you for the concern.” He takes a second to look her over. She seems happy. Any day now, surely, she’ll be announcing that she’s expecting. He isn’t normally prone to bouts of wistfulness, but looking at her now he wonders for a moment where the mousy fourteen-year-old went and feels positively ancient. When she becomes a mother, it’ll be just another reminder of how quickly life is passing by, and how parenthood is just another thing he'll never get to experience for himself. “How is life at Yew Tree? How is Mr. Mason?”

Asking about Mr. Mason is always a sure way of making her eyes come alive. “Oh, he’s ever so well. And I love the farm, wouldn’t trade it for anything now.”

He plays with his lighter, thoughtful. “Do you keep animals? Besides pigs, obviously.”

She nods. “Oh yeah, just a goat and a couple chickens at the moment, but we want to expand. I’d really like a donkey. Well, two, because donkeys should be kept in pairs. They’re social animals, did you know that? I didn’t.”

Thomas, who hasn’t spent a minute of his life thinking about the intricacies of donkey keeping, shakes his head. “What about the chickens, are they easy to keep? Do you get eggs off them every day?”

“Depends on the breed, I think. Ours are very good.”

“There’s different breeds?” he asks, feeling like an oaf, and Daisy giggles.

“Of course there are, silly.” She looks at him with a queer little smile. “I didn’t know you took such an interest in farming, Thomas.”

“I don’t,” he says quickly, and blushes. He doesn’t know why he asked or what he was thinking. The fact that he managed to catch a chicken that one time doesn’t make him a country man, that’s Richard’s territory. Richard would know there are different breeds of chickens, hell, he could probably name more than a few. He’ll never catch up in terms of experience, and why would he even want to?

“You should visit,” Daisy says. “Andy keeps telling me to ask you and I keep forgetting because my head is a mess, but we’d love for you to come by.”

“Oh,” Thomas stammers, taken aback by the invitation, “I, er - thank you, that’s very kind.”

“And you will, won’t you?” she insists. “Bring Miss Baxter, if you want some company on the journey on over. I mean it, Thomas. I’ll be heartbroken if you don’t come.”

He smiles, equal parts touched and perplexed. “Well, in that case, how could I say no?”

Pleased, she continues on her way to the kitchen, and Thomas steps back outside, leaving the Knibb for what it is and retreating to his favourite smoking spot behind the shed to light up and continue reading Richard’s letter.

_You asked about Mr. M. in one of your recent letters. You observed he is very young to be as high up on the totem pole as he is, and you’re right, he is rather an enfant prodige of royal valeting, if you like. I’m not exactly sure how old he is - not ten years my senior, I’d say. He isn’t one for sharing personal details unless it serves to make me feel inferior. Our relationship is based on grudging mutual respect and not much else, although we do have one or two important things in common. As to what they are, I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. (I’ll give you a hint: he doesn’t hail from Yorkshire, but from London - sprung from her loins fully formed, as the tales would have it, and sucking faithfully at her teat to this day.)_

_Something else you need to know about Mr. M.: he is the descendant of a long line of royal servants, all the way back to the first of the Hanoverians, if he’s telling it true, although I’m taking that with a grain of salt. So the way he sees it, he is the purebred greyhound in this race to the top and I am the mutt, and you can bet he doesn’t like feeling the mutt’s breath in his neck one bit. So yes, there is a fair amount of rivalry, I guess you could say, but at the same time I think we do feel a strange sense of… obligation towards each other. Do you remember what I said to you in the stable yard, as we walked from the garage up to the house? I know you will, if you’re anything like me, and it applies here._

_Well, enough of that for now. I will write more about some of the characters that make up the RH in my next letters, provided that sort of thing interests you, but I have some news that I’m eager to get to (if you can believe that, after I’ve already penned two pages full of nonsense, but my pen has a habit of running away with me). I received a letter from Mum a couple days ago. In it she asked me, once again, to pass on her thanks to you for repairing my grandmother’s clock. She’s had it seen by a clockmaker, who reportedly was impressed with a job well done. So take that feather and stick it in your cap, Mr. Barrow._

_But as important as it is to me that she appreciate you, that wasn't the part of her letter that made me happiest (even though I was quite pleased, I assure you!). She has, without breathing a word of it until now, been engaging in some detective work in the past week, and managed to unearth something of great value, albeit symbolic rather than monetary value. Another photograph, to be exact, of the man I want to endeavour to find. I told you in a previous letter that she did recognise J. from the photograph we stumbled upon in Feb., but as it turns out, that wasn’t the whole story. She’s confessed to me now that she actually took the picture, meaning she met J. and talked to him that day, and shared a few other details about him that I won’t put in writing. But it’s enough, Thomas, I truly believe it’s enough information to get me started. If I wasn’t stuck here in London, I’d take the earliest morning train to York and put that picture under all the local pub owner’s noses. Someone must know him._

_(I haven’t seen the second photograph yet, by the way. Mum is safeguarding it for now - the Royal Mail managed to permanently disappear one of her letters almost twenty years ago and she hasn’t trusted them since.)_

_It is almost midnight as I am writing this, so I had best sign off. My final act of the day will be to practise some of those stretching exercises you recommended, for my back. It’s been a little stiff, especially in the evenings, so those exercises have proven quite beneficial._

_I look forward to hearing from you, as always._

_Ever your staunch friend,  
R. _ _Ellis_

Barely has he reached the end of the letter or Thomas’s eyes flick back up to reread the last few paragraphs - the part about Johnnie, and everything after that. He stumbles at the bit about stretching exercises, just as he did on the first readthrough. To the casual observer, there’s nothing noteworthy about that passage, but he knows exactly what Richard is conveying there, and it affects him a great deal. Damn that man! He thought he was safe, considering it isn't one of _those_ letters but no - trust Richard ‘Wordsmith’ Ellis to give him a hard-on even with a couple throwaway lines like that.

He will not, however, cave to the pressure and rub himself off here behind the shed. He will _not._ One, he wouldn’t be so undignified and two, he wouldn’t give Richard the satisfaction. Childish, perhaps, but he has his pride. Instead, he leans his head back, closes his eyes and thinks of what happened earlier with Albert. He doesn’t often have inconvenient erections, but when he does, thinking of his most recent fuck-up usually does the trick, and this time is no exception. Then he calmly smokes another cigarette, for courage, and goes to finish work on the Knibb. It only takes a minute, if that. He cleans up and carries the clock back into the house himself - what’s the harm if they already don’t take him seriously as butler?

When he returns from the drawing room, he goes looking for Albert - to reclaim his pocket watch, for one, but if he is honest, he wants to see how the lad is doing most of all. Thomas is still a bit shaken himself, and he is not the one who's just made an incriminating confession to his direct superior. (For a wild moment his brain tries to imagine what'd have happened if he had attempted to do such a thing with Carson, and he wants to throw up.)

The boy is probably out of his mind with fear, both for his job and his life, since Anna arrived before Thomas could get it together and offer some sort of reassurance - because of course he would have done so after a moment of mental recalibration, _Christ_ , it isn’t every day that someone he works with drops a bombshell like that. But it makes him wonder - how could he have let it catch him unawares the way it had, how is it that he never noticed this about Albert or at least had an inkling?

The answer to that comes to him quickly - he’s burned himself like that one or two times too often, hasn’t he? Thinking he knew when he really didn’t, seeing signs that turned out to be imagined, or planted in his mind by someone he once considered - the word makes him taste bile - a friend. He’s become more cautious with age, resigning himself to the fact that he is, and always will be, the only _abnormal_ element to work at Downton Abbey. An anomaly, who has to hide behind sheds and make up stories about his sister and risk arrest and total ruin every time he ventures out to meet people like him.

Trying to read his fellow man just gets him into trouble - that much has been proven time and time again. Didn’t Richard practically have to spell it out in order for Thomas to take off his blinkers and accept that _yes, he truly was like that?_ And even then, he might’ve let that ship pass him by if Richard hadn’t crossed the hallway to his room and all but said, _Please kiss me, Mr. Barrow._

His reticence had nothing to do with a lack of attraction. Nothing to do with that at all. He simply… couldn’t bear the thought of being rejected again. Thankfully Richard had volunteered to take that risk entirely upon his own shoulders, or Mr. Ellis would be a distant blur in his mind by now instead of the focus of every second thought he has from the time he opens his eyes in the morning till his head hits the pillow again at the end of the day.

Thank God Richard is the braver man. He’d probably object to being told so, but bugger that.

As he passes the china room, deep in thought, his ears pick up a sound no butler wants to hear coming from a china room - that of broken earthenware. He stops in his tracks and finds Albert inside, crouching on the floor with a dustpan and working frantically to clean up the sad mess of shards that reminds only vaguely of the casserole it once was. A _downstairs_ casserole, luckily, but Mrs. Patmore is still going to let the boy have it, of that Thomas has no doubt.

“Albert.” He sees the lad cringe and freeze for a second. Albert is perhaps the only member of staff who’s ever cowered in fear at the sound of his voice, but it’s not this kind of respect he wants and it doesn’t make him feel good at all. “What in the world are you doing?”

Albert pales. “Oh, Mr. Barrow, I - I am sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, and it - it just slipped from my hands. Mrs. Patmore sent me for this casserole for tonight’s dinner, she’s going to kill me, I know she is -”

It is only when he gets closer that Thomas notices Albert is bleeding from a cut in his finger. Albert catches him looking and lifts the finger to his mouth. “It’s nothing, Mr. Barrow, just a small cut, it can wait until I’ve cleaned this up.”

The lad is positively panic-stricken. If that confession in the yard wasn’t enough, now he’s gone and committed the unforgivable sin of breaking a piece of china Mrs. Patmore specifically sent him to fetch - immediate dismissal must surely follow?

“Calm down,” Thomas tells him. “You won’t be thrown out on your ear over a dumb accident. No one would’ve lasted here longer than a week if that was the case. Leave these and come with me, we’ll take care of that cut before you make even more of a mess.”

Albert nods, shoulders drooping as he gets to his feet. “I truly am sorry, Mr. Barrow. I know I’ve disappointed you.”

“Don’t waste your energy and my time on remorse, Albert. Pick yourself up and do better next time, that’s how you learn.”

“Yes, Mr. Barrow.” Albert peeks up at him from beneath a cascade of curls. “If - if I may, er, about the other thing -”

Thomas cuts him off. Albert needs to learn to check his surroundings before opening his mouth. “Not here, lad - open door. Come along now.”

They make their way towards Thomas’s pantry, where he keeps a first aid kit, but before they can slip inside unseen, Mrs. Patmore comes barrelling into the hallway. She takes the news about her casserole about as well as can be expected, and Thomas can feel Albert withering beside him.

“Don’t blame Albert, Mrs. Patmore,” he hears himself saying, surprising himself possibly more than the other two combined. “The fault wasn’t his but mine.”

Mrs. Patmore snorts skeptically. In all his years at Downton, Thomas can’t remember dropping so much as a teaspoon, and if he had, Mrs. Patmore would remember it. “Yours?”

“No, Mr. Barrow,” Albert squeaks, but Thomas silences him with a look.

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Patmore, but let’s not cry over spilt milk, or a broken casserole, as the case may be. We’ll get you a bigger and better one. Albert will be going into the village after lunch anyway, won’t you, Albert?” Albert nods, still looking guilty as sin, but at least he isn’t making any more protestations.

“But I need it _now,_ ” Mrs. Patmore grumbles.

“Come, Mrs. Patmore, the china room is filled up to the rafters, can’t you make do with something else for the time being? You’ve cracked harder nuts than that. Monsieur Courbet might be flustered by a broken dish but not you, surely.”

She shudders as if he’s just invoked an evil spirit. “Do not mention _Monsieur Courbet_ under this roof, Mr. Barrow. Fine, I’ll find something else to make the ratatouille in, but on your head be it.”

“Ah, you are worth a dozen Courbets, Mrs. Patmore. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some first aid to administer. Albert wanted to help me clean up the mess and cut himself.”

Mrs. Patmore turns up her nose, clearly none too impressed with Albert’s injury, but she turns around and heads back into the kitchen. Thomas lets out a breath and strides into the pantry with Albert in tow. “Close the door, please,” he says as he goes up to his desk and leans down to take the medical kit from one of the drawers.

Albert does as he’s asked. “Mr. Barrow, you shouldn’t have said that to Mrs. Patmore. It was my fault, and I should be scolded for it, not you.”

“Keep talking like that and I may just let her rake you over the coals some more,” Thomas snipes, only to then immediately berate himself. They are both on edge, it seems. He tears off a piece of cotton, upends the bottle of iodine. “Here, apply this.”

Albert, properly chastised, takes the piece of cotton and presses it to the cut, giving Thomas a much needed minute to gather his thoughts. It seems ironic, that he now finds himself in the same room where he once had what little self-esteem he possessed crushed to splinters by Mr. Carson, his own demeanour on that occasion surely not much different from Albert’s now. To be made to feel repulsive and less than human by the man who set the standard in this house, who could make or break his career, his _life_ , with a single word - he wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

It's laughable that he thinks a minute will be enough to make him ready to deal with this. He has so little experience at comforting people and for a moment he feels the absence of Richard like a piercing ache in his chest, like a missing limb. Richard Ellis would know exactly what to say, how to soothe. One friendly word, one patented Ellis smile and Albert would forget all his troubles. Thomas desperately wishes he could tap into that right now.

But even Richard once needed someone to say the right words to him, to reassure him that he was worthy and not a freak, and he found that comfort closer to home than most do. He had an uncle who was like him, a kindred spirit and ally, and his love for the man permeates his every word when he talks about him. Isn’t it just the world’s biggest joke that _Thomas_ has the dubious honour of being Albert’s Mr. Carson _and_ Uncle Hugh rolled into one tragically unprepared package? He never asked to be, of course, but apparently that’s the situation and he’ll have to deal with it best he can.

There is one thing to take heart from, at least - he can hardly do worse than Carson did.

“First of all - you're not being dismissed, Albert, so please stop looking at me like a puppy about to get a beating.”

Albert blinks. “You’re - you’re not giving me my notice?”

“No. No more for the casserole than for the other thing. Which, needless to say, is going to have to stay between you and me.” Albert nods dejectedly. He looks young, even for his, what, eighteen years? Suddenly, Thomas is struck by the unpleasant realisation that he is now almost of the same age as some of the men he slept with when _he_ was not much older than Albert, and he tries to imagine for a moment being sexually attracted to someone that young, but the sense of repulsion is so strong that he has to push that thought away quickly before he makes himself sick. He hadn’t seen anything wrong with that sort of dynamic at the time, but now that it’s him wearing the grown man’s breeches - well, suffice it to say he has a different perspective.

“How did you know?” he asks - demands - with lowered voice. He stands ramrod straight, posture defensive and guard up. _Firmly_ up. “Did anyone tell you?” The relief he feels when Albert shakes his head is strong, but fleeting. If no one told him, but he still managed to guess about him - about him and Richard - then anyone could. The thought is chilling - ice water in his veins. “What gave it away? Out with it, lad.”

Albert fumbles with the piece of cotton. “I - I never wanted to pry, Mr. Barrow, honest. It’s just - you acted so strangely that morning, last summer, when I had to wake you up, and then at breakfast you and Mr. Ellis were exchanging these looks as if -”

Thomas clenches his fist behind his back. _Fuck._

“I - I don’t think anyone else noticed, Mr. Barrow, I only did because I was paying attention, everyone else was so preoccupied with the royal servants. Still, I didn’t really think much of it, but I did start to wonder if perhaps you - were like me. And then there were all those letters from your sister and a mysterious box of chocolates for the entire staff on Valentine’s Day. And this morning, I - I don’t know what came over me. I just blurted it out.”

Thomas silently curses Richard for just a second. He’d known those chocolates would come back to bite him some day, somehow, but the joy of receiving them almost made it worth the risk. “Albert, you don’t just blurt things out like that when you’re not sure of the other person, especially out in the yard. What if Anna had heard you? What if - Christ, did you stop to think for a second what could’ve happened if you were wrong about me, God forbid? You need to be more circumspect than that, lad.”

The irony of the situation - imagine _Thomas Barrow_ of all people giving another man advice on being more circumspect - is not lost on him. If Richard heard, he would laugh till he burst.

Albert ducks his head. “I - I know that, Mr. Barrow, and I think I am, most of the time. It's just that... I feel so alone here, sometimes. And - and I thought that maybe you knew that feeling a little, too.”

 _A little._ Thomas almost barks out a bitter laugh.

Instead, he admits, “Of course I do.” _Better than anyone._ Albert’s shoulders drop as pent-up tension drains from them noticeably. “But just to be clear, Albert, I’m not your nanny or a shoulder to cry on. My job is to teach you how to do yours and do it well. We’re not chums - we can’t be. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Barrow.”

“I know it feels lonely to be… that way,” he concedes, “but that’s part of it. You’re going to feel lonely a lot of the time, so you had best get used to it. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s the reality.”

The bleeding appears to have stopped. Thomas hands Albert a sticking plaster.

“You’re not alone, though,” he adds. “There’s plenty like us out there, if you know where to look. Do you want some advice? Get tougher. You’ll have to. This life is not for the weak, no matter what anyone says. Learn to take a beating, literally and figuratively.” Albert’s eyes grow wide. _Not a fighter, that one._ “And for God’s sake, be more careful with who you trust. Never, ever act on an attraction unless you’re damn well sure the bloke won’t scream bloody murder and call the police. Once they have proof against you, it’s over, do you understand? I can only do so much to protect you.”

He feels almost guilty for putting the holy terror of God into the youngster, but it’s no use sugarcoating. Better to be too cautious than to be too careless even once and regret it forever.

“Yes, Mr. Barrow. I understand.”

“Right, off with you, then. And if I were you, I'd stay out of the kitchen and Mrs. Patmore's sight for a while.”

At this, a first, wry smile crosses Albert’s face. “Don’t worry, Mr. Barrow. I will.”

Thomas nods at Albert’s plastered finger. “Oh, and one other thing - be more careful with your hands. You’re lucky you’ll be covering that up at dinner.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrow, I wasn’t thinking.” He turns to leave, not too keen on Thomas finding something else to berate him for, but stops at the door. “Oh - your watch,” he mutters, reaching into his pocket and giving the watch back to Thomas, who reattaches it to the fob, resisting the silly urge to stroke the little moon emblem with the tip of his finger.

“Mr. Barrow?” Albert asks, as he hesitates at the door, hand resting on the handle. “Those Valentine’s chocolates… It - it _was_ Mr. Ellis who sent them, was it not?”

He can feel the _And what's it to you?_ right on the tip of his tongue, while a cloud of dark thoughts swirls in his mind - _it's a trap, you're going to doom you and Richard both_ \- but it passes quickly.

The fact of the matter is that letting out the truth every now and then, while terrifying, feels really fucking _good_ , and while everything that's happened to him in the past should’ve taught him better... it's also been well-established that Thomas Barrow, _one,_ never learns and _two,_ is going soft in his old age. Softer than candy floss at the fair. And for some reason, after all these warnings and cautionary tales, it seems important to let the lad know that good things occasionally do happen for people like them. So he nods, just once and briefly, and even that feels like stepping into an unknown abyss, but it's enough to make Albert beam.

“Thank you, Mr. Barrow.”

Finally, the door clicks shut after Albert and Thomas can release the sigh that has been building in his chest for the past… how long has it been since Albert nearly gave him a heart attack out in the yard? He thoughtlessly fingers his watch through the fabric of his waistcoat but doesn’t take it out, just glad to have it back, to feel its reassuring weight on him again.

After the turmoil of the morning, the rest of the day is almost disappointingly quiet. _Almost_. Thomas has no complaints about it in reality. The confrontation with Albert rattled him enough as it is, he really doesn't need any more excitement to deal with or crises to manage. He feels jittery, and he can't decide whether the letter in his pocket feels like a comforting weight against his chest, or like a stone threatening to drag him under. Thankfully no one seems to notice his restlessness, and before he knows it he's settling in his pantry for a last cup of tea before bed, the family gone up and the house slowly going dormant.

It’s been about ten minutes when Miss Baxter sticks her head around the door. “I’m heading up to bed, Mr. Barrow, how about yourself?”

He nods, not taking his eyes off an undefined spot in the wallpaper he’s been staring at while his tea slowly goes cold. He’s off duty and his appearance reflects that, as he’s in shirtsleeves and waistcoat and he suspects his hair is less than immaculate. Perched between his lips is a cigarette, unlit, his fingers playing distractedly with his lighter. “I won’t be too far behind.”

She lingers in the doorway for a second before stepping inside. “Are you going to smoke that?” she asks, smiling, and nods at the cigarette.

“I’m not actually sure yet,” he replies, flicking the lighter cap with his thumb. “Not sure I want it badly enough.”

“Well, don’t stay up _too_ long,” she says. “You look tired. Long day?”

“Fairly, yeah. It’s given me lots to think about.”

He really ought to know better by now than to give Phyllis cause for interrogation like this. She closes the door. He uncrosses and crosses his legs again, inwardly bracing himself.

“No bad news in that letter you received this morning, I hope,” she says, and at this he finally tears his eyes away from the wall.

“Tell me something, Miss Baxter,” he says wearily, “am I truly so transparent to you all?”

“What about?” she asks, and he pats his left breast, where he keeps the letter - or would, if he were still wearing his jacket. “Oh. No, I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Barrow. Why?”

He hesitates for a moment, then sighs. “No reason.” He flicks the lighter cap. It’s a tic of his, he knows it is, but it helps him think. “Sometimes I ask myself if it was a mistake to take this job.”

She looks pained by the admission. “Oh, Thomas, but why?”

He shrugs. “Too much history. For once in my life, I would like to start somewhere with a clean slate, and not be held to Mr. Carson’s shining standard at every turn.”

“You’re too hard on yourself. You’re doing splendidly in your own right, everyone thinks so.”

“Lady Mary doesn’t.” He hadn’t realised he was still bitter about this, but apparently the wound is deeper than he thought.

“Well, sod her.” Strong language for Miss Baxter’s standards, and a slight blush touches her cheeks. “I respect Mr. Carson, but he’s a relic of a bygone era. You’re a butler for the current times.”

“Captaining a ship that’s slowly going under?” he says, but he’s sulking now, and she has no patience for that.

“Oh, shush, you’re being silly. Something’s been eating at you all day, what is it?”

“Let me preserve some modicum of mystery, Miss Baxter. Everyone’s been all up in my personal business today as it is.”

“Give me some credit, Thomas,” she counters, allowing some exasperation to leak into her tone. “I only ask because I want to help you if I can.”

“So I can indebt myself to you even more than I already have?” He sighs and plucks the cigarette from between his lips. “Better sit down for this, Phyl. I'm considering doing something that's making me wonder if I finally lost it, and I don’t want you keeling over from shock.”


	3. Richard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter: war trauma, period-typical homophobia, offensive language, marital infidelity (by a secondary character), prostitution, repressed gay character, sexual power imbalance and of course, gay sexytimes (Richard/OC) - I hope I didn't miss any. This chapter's a wild ride so buckle up, folks.
> 
> This one needs a bit of introduction. Chapter 3 is the first half of what was originally going to be one big chapter told from Richard's POV, heavily spiced with flashbacks to his time in the trenches and his affair with Lt Col Blake, an original character who was briefly referenced in IYTTFOYB. Back then, I wrote a ton of material about them which I ended up shelving because I felt it distracted from the main story. Well, guess what - it's been taken from the shelf, dusted off and you're getting it now! :) And like the first time, it all blew up to even bigger proportions so that's why you're getting two chapters instead of one. I justify this by saying Blake is an important part of Richard's backstory and the story insisted on being told. I can't lie, I'm putting Richard through the wringer this chapter and I'm afraid there's more of that coming but don't worry - I love that boy dearly and I don't want to see him unhappy for too long. Unfortunately, though, he has to suffer for a bit - it is Essential To The Plot.
> 
> In this chapter, we also meet the elusive Mr. Miller (whom athens7 and I have fancast as Rufus Sewell - for the descriptions of Blake, I drew heavily on one of my favourite actors, Richard Armitage, because everyone in this universe must be pretty, it is law - and Armitage and Max Brown had stellar chemistry when they played opposite each other in the spy series _Spooks_ , so I feel very validated in my choices here).
> 
> Disclaimer: despite doing (some) research on WWI, I'm sure I made a ton of historical errors but I hope none of them are too glaring. And in any case - eh, it's fiction, I can do what I want :P
> 
> Whoa, long notes! Thanks for your consideration and now - onwards!

Ten years this year since the First Armistice signed at Le Francport ended hostilities on the Western Front. _Ten years._

It’s only March, the date of the actual anniversary still over seven months away, and already Richard can feel the coverage in the media wearing on him. There may come a time when he will have to avoid newspapers and the wireless altogether for a while just to keep sane. He may already have made a mistake the previous night by going through his diaries from his time at the front, after reading somewhere that the Historic Society was asking veterans to send theirs in for publication - not that his diaries would make for suitable reading but he’d felt a need to let them go through his fingers all the same. Good paper had been hard to come by in France at the height of the conflict, but his Mum had kept him well-supplied - no shortage of sturdy notebooks in England. He remembers putting his nose into every one she sent him, savouring the smell of crisp new paper.

But wartime journals do not for relaxing bedtime reading make, and after he finally crawled under the covers he’d spent a good portion of the night staring into the dark, wide awake, reliving his wartime experiences in crystal clear detail. He need look no further than that to find an explanation for why he is feeling so depleted this morning, bleary eyes staring back at him from the mirror as he shaves, still unable to shake off those images haunting his steps, following in the wake of every productive, useful thought he tries to have.

The first ten months of active duty in the trenches had been about as bleak as one might expect, with only the letters from home to distract him from the harsh reality of frequent artillery fire, the biting cold, the rats, trenchfoot and other such pleasures one constantly had to contend with on top of fighting a mostly invisible enemy, but war taught one to appreciate small blessings, and Richard had never welcomed spring more than he did in 1915, when he felt the warmth of the sun on his skin again and knew that the worst of winter was finally behind them. Still, the persistent cough he’d developed over what would have been Christmas at home took almost two more months to shed.

It was the trenches, in the end, that made a man of him. That taught him about hardship and the fragility of life. He turned twenty-four that June. One of the men arranged a bottle of a strong, obscure French liquor to be shared among about a dozen Yorkies and half a pack of cigarettes he could keep for himself, and that was considered to be a good deal. He made the cigarettes last for as long as he could, taking only two or three hits at a time and tucking the stub into his helmet to be smoked later.

They took him to a brothel, also.

They probably did it to test him, but the way they told it, even a man of twenty-four couldn’t claim to be a man grown until he’d _made a whore cream around his prick_ , so off they went, five or six men strong, to a nearby French village to have the matter sorted. They’d lumped together a little cash and pushed it into Richard’s hand to whistles and hoots of “Go get her, virgin,” as he puffed out his chest and grinned, bravely playing along even though he was quietly dying on the inside.

He wasn’t, of course - a virgin - although in the strictest sense of the word, it was true he’d never penetrated a girl, or a man even, at that point. He’d even invented a sweetheart back home - Abby - and carried a photograph around of a pretty young girl with dark eyes to show men when they asked. But they called him virgin because he’d foolishly admitted to never having bought the services of a prostitute before.

Still, he was resigned to what had to be done - anything to avoid being unmasked for what he truly was - and in some small way, challenged. He had never tried to properly lay with a girl, but perhaps, if he tried and closed his eyes at the right times, he could pull it off? He’d gone without intimacy for so long at this point - perhaps he’d even enjoy it?

That naive illusion began to wobble almost as soon as he was alone with the girl - woman, she was a woman, as he was able to establish for himself when she stepped out of her dress - and was well and truly shattered when she put her soft arms around his neck to kiss him, wearing nothing but a _faux_ pearl necklace. Petite and pretty, she smelled of flowers, and was about the realest thing he’d held in his hands since this whole nightmare began, but she had nothing to offer that aroused him, like any normal bloke in his position would be aroused when a naked female pressed up against him so that he even felt the shape of her breasts through his tunic.

He couldn’t. He truly couldn’t do it. In that moment, though, he wished that he could, just to feel another’s warmth, their skin to his once again.

“I - I’m sorry,” he stammered, gently pushing at her shoulders. “I’m sorry, _je suis désolé,_ but I can’t.”

She spoke no English - and he only a little broken French - and didn’t seem to understand his meaning at first, although she must have felt he wasn’t erect. Perhaps she thought he was simply nervous. Either way, she clucked soothingly and stroked his cheek - the gesture almost causing him to burst into tears - before kissing him again, stroking her small hands down his front. It felt wrong, but shattered by his failure, he let it happen. Only when she made to unbutton his trousers did he stop her, grasping her wrist and pulling it away. “Please,” he said, “it’s no use, _s'il vous plaît, mademoiselle -_ ”

She giggled, but stopped when she saw his face. He must have looked crestfallen. “Ahhh,” she said, understanding dawning in her eyes, and then uttered a word in French he had never heard before, but its meaning left little to be guessed. She raised her eyebrows in question, and he blushed, mortified to have his mask ripped off like this. He felt naked without it, vulnerable and exposed. Slipping the money into her hand, muttering _désolé_ over and over, he made to beat an embarrassed retreat, but she stopped him and made it clear he wasn’t to leave yet.

“Suzanne,” she said, pointing at herself, then at him.

He hesitated, for just a second. To most men in his regiment, he was Dick (or simply ‘Ellis’, most of the time). No one called him by his full Christian name. “Richard.”

“Richard?” She pronounced it French. He nodded, and she pulled him to the bed by his hand. For a moment, he feared that she was going to try and turn him, as it were, but she picked up her dress and slipped back into it before sitting on the edge of the bed beside him and using her hands to ask him for a cigarette. As they both smoked in silence, it struck him as odd that she could stomach to sit so close to him, like he wasn’t anything unnatural, but then it occurred to him that he probably wasn’t the first man of his kind to be pushed into her bedroom by a boisterous lot of friends.

After a while, they started a tentative, stilted conversation built on hand gestures and what little French Richard could tap into. He managed to make her understand it was his birthday, at which she got up, walked over to one of her cabinets and pulled from it a nondescript flask. What was inside it he could only guess, but judging from her conspiratorial smile as she pressed a finger to her lips, she didn’t want her madam to find out about it.

“ _Bénédictine_ ,” she clarified as she poured two shot glasses of the golden liquid, and gave him one. “Bon anniversaire, Richard,” she said, and laughed at the face he made when he tasted the drink, so sweet that it set his teeth on edge.

She asked how old he was, and when she didn’t understand the spoken answer, he told her in hand gestures, holding up two fingers with one hand, four with the other. It didn’t seem proper somehow to ask her the same question, but she told him of her own accord - she was twenty-seven, not much older than he was, provided she told the truth.

She kept him in her room for the full allotted time of an hour, and when the conversation dried up, as it inevitably did, she patted her shoulder to indicate he could nestle his head there, if he wanted. By then he felt a little more comfortable, the liqueur warming his stomach, but it felt like a strange thing to do nonetheless - she had to take his head between her hands to make him cross the final inches, but once he was settled there, he didn’t want to lift his head again anytime soon. “You smell nice,” he murmured, not sure if she understood him, but she lifted her hand and stroked his hair. All of a sudden, a sob he couldn’t keep in escaped him, but she didn’t respond - he probably wasn’t the first soldier to weep on her shoulder, either. Despite her young age, she’d probably seen it all at this point.

 _Sobbing on a prostitute’s shoulder - you really are a pathetic excuse for a man,_ piped up a taunting voice inside of him. _Not a man at all, but a sissy missing his Mummy. Puffs like you don’t make it, Ellis, they get sent home in a wooden box._

When she tried pulling him into her lap, he resisted at first - he’d given up enough of his dignity by blubbering like this - but she clacked with her tongue, “ _Allez_ , Richard,” and he surrendered with barely a struggle, curling up on his side and letting the tears flow freely as she ran her fingers through his hair. It felt just lovely, once he allowed himself to accept what she was offering, and he stayed like that even after the tears dried up, damn near lulled to sleep by the hypnotic caress of her fingers carding through his hair.

When his time with her was up, she gently shook him by the shoulder and he sat up, dazed, giving her a sheepish smile. “Thank you,” he said, trying to offer her the rest of his cigarettes, but she wouldn’t take them. “And for the drink, too.”

“De rien,” she said as she gave him his cap, stroking the insignia with her finger. “Bonne chance, Richard. Dieu vous protège.”

Before going back out front, she disheveled her own hair, smudged her lipstick. Then she leaned down with a sly look in his direction and ripped her stocking. “ _Oh la la_ ,” she said, eyes sparkling mischievously, and he had to swallow something down before he could speak.

“Thank you,” he croaked. “Truly, I - _merci_.”

Coming out like that, Suzanne with that carefully cultivated look of having been ravaged good and proper, they were met by hooting and hollering from Richard’s mates. It was about as awkward a situation as one might expect, but he weathered it patiently, grinning as they slapped him on the back and hoping - _praying_ \- the whole charade would be over soon.

“Fucking hell, but she’s a pretty piece,” one of the men said, grabbing himself between the legs as he eyed Suzanne. “I think I’ll come back soon and shoot a fat load in her myself.”

The other men laughed, but Richard felt himself going a little cold on the inside. “Shut up, Lee.”

“I’d do it right now if I had the money in my pocket, but everything I had went into Ellis’s bit of fun,” Lee went on imperturbably. “Which hole did you use, Ellis?”

“The rear, I’ll bet,” Ackroyd sniggered, “Dick likes a tight fit, don’t you?”

“I said, _shut up_.” Richard pushed Ackroyd, who stood nearer. “An ape’s got better manners than both of you put together.”

“Whoah, careful,” Ackroyd flared, but Lee, the more even-keeled of the two, just laughed. “Looks like Dick’s fallen in love.”

Richard took a deep breath of relief when they finally made it outside, even if they kept badgering him for details for close to an hour afterwards and he struggled to keep up the act. Ackroyd’s words - _Dick likes a tight fit_ \- echoed in his mind, taunting him for a long time after. Just a joke? He supposed it could have been.

Then again, perhaps it hadn’t.

 _They couldn’t know,_ he told himself, desperate to believe it. _They could only suspect, and so long as he kept his head down, dropped the name Abby a couple times for good measure..._

But Suzanne’s hands had unlocked something inside of him, and in the weeks that followed he yearned, oh, more than ever did he yearn for someone, a man, to hold him, touch him. Suzanne had told him where he might find male company, but it wasn’t close by and he couldn’t get the time off. Besides, with Ackroyd’s words still fresh in his mind, it was best not to engage in any _risky behaviour._

And that was how he was trying to get by when, about a month after his hour with Suzanne - he even considered going back, using his saved up francs just to curl up in her lap and feel her stroking his hair again, but he never did - he met Michael Blake.

“What’s this, Ellis?” He startles from his reminiscing and almost nicks himself with the razor as Mr. Miller walks in, sizing him up where he stands. He himself is impeccably groomed, pomaded and starched to perfection, ready to go down. Richard grits his teeth, sure that Miller caught him woolgathering.

“What does it look like?”

“Not like you to be dillydallying in the morning, that’s all.” Miller grins, and Richard manages a grimace in return. They both know it _is_ like him. “You’re not going to make me drag you all over London today and gripe as I’m doing it, are you?”

“Have you ever known me to gripe?” Richard quickly finishes shaving and leans down to splash water in his face. When he straightens back up, Miller is still looking at him. It rubs him the wrong way to be appraised like this, but he knows better than to bite. Instead, he forces himself to smile. “I just need my cup of tea and oatmeal, Mr. Miller, then I’ll be outrunning you all the way down The Mall.”

To that, Miller just responds with a little tip of the chin. He isn’t one to refuse a good challenge. “I’d like to see you try.”

Barely an hour later, they don their hats and set off at a brisk pace, Miller matching each of Richard’s strides with his own. They rarely run errands together, but they are coming up on Easter, which traditionally means the whole household packs up and moves to Windsor, and second pair of eyes is always welcome when going over the finer details of His Majesty’s riding tweeds, His Majesty’s dinner jackets and His Majesty’s Easter Service outfit.

Or so Mr. Miller had insisted, anyway, and Richard wasn’t about to complain about a chance to get out of the Palace, spending an hour not cleaning.

It is a temperate March morning, one of the first that suggests spring could be near, but Richard isn’t really in a mood to appreciate it fully. It is London during morning rush hour, and it should be the last thing in the world to remind him of the trenches, and yet he finds his thoughts returning to that first meeting with Blake in the summer of 1915. He was enjoying the early July sun on his bare shoulders one morning as he was inspecting his tunic for lice, lit cigarette at the ready, when two officers appeared in front of him and the lower-ranked of the two addressed him curtly, “Private Ellis,” to which Richard stood and saluted.

“Sirs.”

There was a brief silence then, and Richard had suddenly gotten the distinct impression of having his measure taken. The two exchanged a glance and the superior officer gave a barely perceptible nod to the sergeant who, unlike Richard himself, seemed to know what this signified and proceeded to tell Richard in a matter-of-fact tone that from there on out he was to serve as Lt Col Blake’s batman, the previous one having sadly perished the day before.

“Well, Ellis?” the sergeant barked when Richard wasn’t quick enough to express his gratitude. “Nothing to say for once? Normally you never shut up. Cat got your tongue?”

“No, Sir. Honoured, Sir. Thank you.”

And with that, it was fixed. Prior to this, Richard hadn’t known Blake other than as a distant figure in uniform, which made the unexpected promotion all the more puzzling, but the position of batman came with certain privileges and so he wasn’t about to question the machinations that had led to the offer falling into his lap. And the arrangement worked out - Blake, while not the most talkative of blokes, was a magnetic sort of fellow. Tall, deep-voiced and barrel-chested, he possessed a gentleman’s disposition and wasn’t given much to idle chat, hence why it took until mid September for them to have a personal conversation beyond the very superficial.

Richard had been giving Blake daily shaves, including the occasional trim - a new skill he learned by trial and error, but took to like a fish to water - and that was what he was doing that morning when Blake suddenly, contrary to his habits, broke the silence.

“You take care of yourself very well, don’t you, Ellis?”

Richard froze, feeling caught out by the observation for some reason. Unsure how to interpret its meaning. “Sir?”

“You’re fastidious about your appearance. As fastidious as you are about mine. One of the cleanest blokes in the regiment, I daresay. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, quite to the contrary. No man wants a smelly servant.”

Richard relaxed some at that, slipping the fingers of his left hand through Blake’s hair and handling the scissors with the right. “Before the war I worked in domestic service, Sir, and I hope to do so again in future. Appearance is everything.”

“Footman?”

“Yessir. In London.”

“Your parents must be proud.”

“They are, Sir.”

“Where’d you grow up?”

“York, Sir. Born and bred.” Richard took a breath, wondering if a counter question would be appreciated. “And yourself, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t,” Blake said promptly. “Hazlewood. I have a modest family estate there.”

“Hazlewood Hall?”

“The very one.” Blake fell silent, and for a moment it seemed as though the pleasantries would end there, but - “Do you know it?”

“No, Sir. Only by name.”

“Well, like I said, it’s modest. We’re the poorer branch of the Blake family tree. But it’s beautiful country, and I miss it. I hope to get home leave in the next few weeks, and I will be taking you with me when I do. You can tell your parents that, when you write to them next, and any girls back home that may want to know.”

The thought of going home soon, however temporarily, sent such a thrill down Richard’s spine that it took him a moment to recalibrate. Blake was peering up at him, his slight smile and sharp-eyed gaze somewhat at odds with one another. “That makes you happy, I see. Haven’t you been home yet since the war started?”

“No, Sir. I’m very grateful, thank you. It will be good to see my parents.” He hesitated briefly. “But there’s no girls.”

He sealed his fate there, he later thought. He sealed his fate when he told Blake the truth instead of dishing up his usual lies about a girl named Abby.

“None?” Blake lifted an incredulous eyebrow. Fixed Richard with piercing blue eyes that, suddenly, made him weak in the knees. The man had a very intent way of staring someone in the eye. “You haven’t got any old sweethearts among the Yorkshire belles to call on, Ellis? Good-looking bloke like yourself?”

“No, Sir.” Richard stepped to the front of the man in charge. To inspect his handiwork, he told himself, as he slipped his fingers through the man’s thick dark hair and watched how it fell back against his scalp. He was surely imagining it, but he could have sworn Blake was breathing more shallowly than he had been before. Richard felt the man’s fingers close around his wrist - of his other hand, the one holding the scissors - and for a terrifying second, he wondered if he was about to be struck, or at the very least, given his marching orders.

Blake had never touched him before. There’d been no need to. But those fingers around his wrist… Richard wondered if the man could feel his pulse. How rapid it was. More rapid than it had been when Suzanne stood before him naked, and he could have done whatever he wanted for an hour.

“Not too short,” Blake finally murmured, “I want my wife to recognise me when I see her.”

Richard gave a tiny, stiff nod. For a moment, as he stared into Blake’s eyes, he’d forgotten about his bleak daily reality completely. Heat churned in his belly like it hadn’t in what felt like ages. “Understood, Sir.”

“I am very pleased with your work, Ellis,” Blake said unexpectedly. A little awkwardly. He’d released Richard’s wrist, and the moment passed. However, Richard was convinced of what he’d felt just now. His years in London had taught him to read men and the things lurking just behind their eyes. “Don’t doubt it. You’ve very skilled hands. There isn’t a man in the regiment I’d trust more with a straight razor at my throat.”

“Chuffed, Sir. Thank you.”

That morning passed quietly. The regiment had been relieved from one of the front line trenches two days prior, and the men were glad to spend some time at the very rear of the conflict, to catch up on sleep, play card games and tend to tasks that got forgotten in the thick of the action. Dugouts were nicer here too, and Blake’s eyes lit up at the sight of the first proper bunk he’d seen in weeks. He was quiet again as Richard tended to him - removed the shoulder strap and heavy belt, tunic and tie - but it was a different kind of silence, pregnant with something that hadn't been there before today. Dugouts were stuffy places by nature, but that afternoon, it felt like there wasn’t enough air to share between the two of them. Richard was surer of his instincts than ever and he felt drunk over it.

And all his resolutions about being cautious crumbled right there.

“Thank you, Ellis,” Blake murmured when Richard handed him his holstered Webley - like most soldiers, Blake never slept with his firearm more than an arm's length away. “You can sleep here on the floor, if you’d like.”

Richard nodded. He usually slept whenever his boss took a little shuteye, but he rarely had the luxury of a roof over his head when he did. “Thank you, Sir.” He turned to put away the articles of clothing he’d taken off Blake, trying not to notice how they were warm from his body. When he turned back, hands empty by his sides, he noticed Blake still standing by his bunk, looking at him in a way no officer would be caught looking at his batman in front of his other men.

Richard knew that look. Knew it well, in fact, even though it seemed like something from a previous life, distant and almost forgotten. Before he could think about what he was getting himself into, he’d reached inside himself and grasped what little confidence he could find. Brazenly he stepped forward.

Blake rebuffed the kiss, putting a hand up against Richard’s chest, and for a long, terrifying second, Richard had to consider the possibility he’d tragically miscalculated. If he had, he stood to lose more than his position - Blake was still holding his holstered pistol, and if the history books told it true, men like him had been shot for less. He took a breath to brace himself and looked Blake in the eyes, praying to God he wasn’t about to stare down the barrel of a gun. He heard Blake’s breath stutter as he slowly peeled his hand away from his chest. On an impulse, he ripped open the top buttons of his own tunic with shaking fingers and guided the other man’s hand underneath, watching Blake’s face crumple as his fingers curled against Richard’s collarbone. Richard’s heart thumped as though it would jump out of his chest. He whispered, “Anything else I can do for you, Sir?”

“You are very foolish, Ellis,” Blake told him in a low voice. “Either very foolish or knowingly reckless with your life, and I’m not sure which is worse.”

“Been told that before, Sir.” Richard didn’t try to kiss Blake again. Instead, he lifted his hand and slipped his fingers through his hair, as he had that morning. “Are you ordering me to stop?”

“Cheeky fellow,” Blake muttered. His eyes flicked towards the entrance. It didn’t lock, but they wouldn’t be disturbed unless there was an attack or some other emergency. There was a muffled thud as the heavy pistol was dropped on the bunk. Richard’s hand was then pulled from Blake’s hair none too delicately and guided towards his crotch. Barely had Richard established there was a considerable bulge there or he’d opened the fastenings and slipped his hand inside to wrap his fingers around him. Blake’s moan reassured him almost as much as his swelling cock did. “Be quick about it,” Blake growled at him, grasping his shoulder - an order Richard had no trouble obeying.

With nary another word spoken between them, Richard pleasured Blake with his hand as well as he could, fingers gripping him firmly as he moved along the full length of him. Blake gave almost no sound, jaw set at a hard angle, a flush spreading down his neck as he planted his feet a little wider and thrust his hips in counterpoint to Richard’s ever more frantic movements. It was by far the most arousing Richard had experienced since this whole damn war began, and he ineffectually palmed himself through his trousers in a desperate bid to get off. It drew Blake’s gaze.

“So -” He licked his dry lips. “You truly _are_ -”

Richard nodded and pressed the heel of his thumb down harder, tipping his head back as he moaned with abandon. “Yes, Sir.”

“Damn it, Ellis, let me -”

“I can tell I’ve lost you already, Ellis.”

This time, Mr. Miller’s voice barely reaches him - he has to nudge Richard with his elbow to get his attention, and Richard needs a second to get his bearings in the chaos that is London when his mind is still in that dugout. “Oh no, your repartee is as captivating as always, Alan. I assure you I’m hanging on to your every word.”

Miller’s face hardens at that - he hates being called by his first name, but he gave up on trying to get Richard to stop doing it a long time ago. For Richard, it’s by far the easiest and most amusing way of taking Miller down a notch, jabbing that inflated ego with pinpricks. That, and exaggerating his Yorkshire drawl - both do the trick beautifully every time.

It is a fleeting moment of triumph only, however. Richard can see in Miller’s eyes the exact moment he decides how to retaliate, and the execution is swift and effective. “How was your Yorkshire holiday, Mr. Ellis?”

His expression is nothing if not gleeful. He’s been saving this one for a rainy day.

“That was well over a month ago, Mr. Miller. Your interest is a bit stale.”

“I thought it better not to make inquiries back at the Palace,” Miller smoothly replied. “Here, it’s just us. And a couple thousand Londoners minding their own business as Londoners do best.”

“The holiday was fine, since you asked. My parents were happy to see me, and I them.”

“I’m sure,” Miller drawls. “Come on, Ellis, don’t be such a prude. You know far too many of my secrets for me to be careless with yours. Who’s the bloke?”

Richard could swear his heart just stopped for a second. “I don’t know what you’re -”

“Oh, give it up already.” Miller eyes him from the side, grinning. “I’ve known you for almost ten years, and I’ve never seen you return so giddy from a family visit. Granted, the glow has waned a bit by now, but I know exactly what you were up to in February, and your family had very little to do with it. I take it he’s good in bed?”

Richard feels his temper rising, but manages to hold himself in check. Getting angry will only give Miller the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting to him. “While I'm flattered you take such an interest in my romantic ventures, Alan, I’m rather worried your own must be a sad state of affairs if you need vicarious thrills to keep things interesting.”

“Keep your secrets, then, if you think you’re so subtle.” Miller shrugs. “All I’m saying is, good on you for getting a little _divertissement_ in on your time off. We all need a bit of distraction every now and then… Though why you need to go all the way up to Yorkshire to get it escapes me, if I’m being honest. Nothing up there that you can’t get here in multitudes, and better.”

Richard scoffs. “And they want us to believe Londoners aren’t arrogant. You’ve all been walking in fog for so long you’ve forgotten there’s a whole world out there - it wouldn’t hurt to come out and have a look every once in a while.”

Miller turns up his nose at the suggestion, as Richard knew he would. “‘Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.’”

“I am familiar with the quote, thank you. Well, I never claimed to be an intellectual.”

Miller gives him a pointed look. “Be that as it may, I couldn’t help but notice you were reading up on clock lore recently.”

“Yes, and it’s fascinating,” Richard deadpans. “What's wrong with wanting to expand my horizons a bit?”

“Blimey, Ellis, are you considering a change of career in your middle age? Or is your Yorkshire beau to blame? If I didn't know you better, I’d almost say you are in love.”

“Well,” Richard says slowly, feeling something close off inside him, “like you said, you know me better than that.”

It comes so easily to him, to feign nonchalance so convincingly, to squarely meet Miller’s gaze and believe in his own lie, just for a moment. So easily that it scares him, and he is glad of the reprieve when they arrive at the tailor’s and he can hang back for a bit while Mr. Miller does what he does best, going through the minutiae of their order with the tailor like no matter of greater importance ever existed in the land. As he pretends to look at a box of cufflinks, his thoughts soon wander off again - not to Thomas, as that seems altogether too dangerous with Miller already on the scent, but back to that dugout where he and Blake recklessly crossed a line into territory that could prove as perilous as No Man’s Land.

_“Damn it, Ellis, let me.”_

The fingers fumbling at the front of his trousers were unexpected - the strong hand wrapping around his bare prick yet more so. It fueled the white heat building in the pit of his belly to a boiling point. Three or four rough strokes were sufficient to tip him over, and he came even before Blake did, albeit only by a hair.

Once the immediate rush of arousal passed, an awkward silence took its place, Richard only springing into action and fetching a cloth when Blake thoughtlessly made to wipe his soiled fingers on his trousers. “Wait, Sir -”

Richard could feel Blake’s eyes tracking his every move as he diligently wiped him down, and then himself, removing the evidence of what they’d just done as best he could. He wished the man would speak, would reassure him in some way, but the uncomfortable silence stretched on and on until finally, Blake buttoned himself up as Richard did likewise, his face drawn and tense.

“This can’t get out, Ellis,” he muttered, voice rough and low. A growl almost. “Do I make myself clear? Breathe one word and you’re finished. We both are.”

“Yes, Sir,” Richard said softly. “I understand.”

“I mean it, Ellis. I’m a married man, I hold a respectable position in my community back home. These - these are a younger man’s follies, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir. I do.”

Younger man’s follies or no, the line could not be uncrossed and from that moment on, they continued the pattern begun in that dugout. Whenever they were alone, like clockwork, Blake would say “Ellis,” in a certain tone Richard learned to recognise - it got to a point where just _hearing_ that tone made him hard - and he’d respond, without fail, giving Blake the use of his hand. And like that first time, Blake usually reciprocated, but only seemed capable of doing so when he himself was in the throes, and by that time a few strokes generally sufficed to bring Richard over the edge with him.

A pattern. Following unspoken but clearly defined rules that remained intact for several weeks, until one day, Richard was woken from a midday nap by Blake shaking him by the shoulder none too gently and saying his name. It startled him, and he scrambled into a somewhat upright position still half asleep, his first conscious thought that they must be under attack. “Sir?” he whispered groggily, “what -”

He stopped when he saw the heat in the other man’s gaze, visible even in the gloom of that dugout. For once, Blake hadn’t availed himself of his services before they bunked down, and Richard felt that telltale tug in his belly as they stared at each other for a moment, breathing hard, before Blake licked his lips. Swallowed. “Ellis,” he murmured, “I -”

But Blake could never put into words what he wanted. Not for as long as Richard knew him. Instead, he grabbed Richard by the collar of his half unbuttoned tunic and dragged him towards him. With his other hand, he lifted up the blanket. “Here,” was all he said, low and rough, and Richard obeyed the command eagerly, even as his heart still pounded from the fright of being awakened, ears still pricked up for sounds of artillery fire that never came that day.

Blake moaned in surprise when Richard swallowed him down but didn’t stop him, head dropping back against his bunk and fingers curled tightly into Richard’s collar as he pleasured him in this new way, hastily and furtively but no less enthusiastically because of it. Richard’s cheeks burned with the realisation that he’d missed the feeling of a cock filling his mouth, bringing a man to completion that way, and hearing Blake struggle to bite back his gasps above him only heightened his own pleasure. It was wrong, he wasn’t too far gone to know that they were playing with fire, but to him, in that moment, the allure of Blake and the risk he represented enthralled and aroused him more than they warned him off.

Knowing what was good for him had never been one of his strong suits, had it.

“Ah, fuck, Ellis -”

Blake thrust up when he came, his hand still fisted into Richard’s collar, and Richard understood what was needed and gladly complied, swallowing until there was nothing left. Then, while Blake recovered and looked on, panting from his own orgasm, Richard rubbed himself off, just a few strokes required before he was spending onto the soil, the taste of Blake still in his mouth.

Thus began a new pattern, although it took a while for Blake to reciprocate in that way, too.

One evening, Richard, his friends and about a dozen other men were huddled around a fire clutching steaming cups of tea to warm their hands. The days were getting shorter, the nights colder, and they turned to music to forget their woes. Someone had a harmonica, another used an upended piss bucket for a drum, and they sang a medley of bawdy Yorkshire songs to start with, with favourites such as _The Oak And The Ash -_

 _Now, all you servant girls, a warning take from me,  
_ _and never trust a sailor boy an inch above your knee,  
_ _for I trusted one and he rewarded me,  
_ _he left me with a pair o' twins to dangle on me knee._

… and of course it wasn’t long before someone requested _My Bonny Yorkshire Lass._

 _Kind friends, I’ve come before you now me happy lot to tell,  
_ _I’ll sing in praise of a charming girl with whom in love I fell.  
_ _She comes from out o’ Yorkshire, her name is Emily,  
_ _about as nice a buxom lass as ever you did see._

Later in the evening, the mood turned, and the repertoire shifted from the lewd and the humorous towards the nostalgic, with traditionals such as _Pleasant and Delightful_ and _Beautiful Dale, Home of the Swale._ There were lads from all the four Ridings in their regiment, and they all had their own songs to contribute.

“Anyone know _Merry Mountain Child_?” piped up one of the quieter lads, a bloke from near Huddersfield named Brentwood. “That one always reminds me of home, but I can’t carry a tune meself.”

“I do,” Richard said, and proceeded to sing it without accompaniment while the rest of the circle listened quietly, the fire casting an orange glow on their intent, pale faces.

“Come strike the harp, I long to hear those merry tales of old,   
Ere youth has lost its flowery wreath and loving hearts grow cold,   
And loving, loving hearts grow cold.   
For it brings me back those happy times when roaming free and wild,   
I played about my native home, a merry mountain child.   
Oh, tell me not of other lands across the deep blue sea,   
This little isle of freedom’s sons, it’s dearer far to me,  
It’s dearer, dearer far to me.”

Eventually, his voice was joined by two or three others as together, they sang the rest of it.

“For it brings me back those happy times, that bleak and stormy wild,  
Where nature makes me glad to be, a merry mountain child.”

“Thank you,” said Brentwood after they had finished, and he looked at Richard with tears in his eyes, a wistful smile on his young face. Archie, Richard thought his name was. “Thank you, that was lovely. Makes me wonder what my Mum is doing right now.”

Richard’s cigarette had gone out, and as he held it to the flames to relight it, his eyes unexpectedly caught Blake’s silhouette standing just outside the circle, talking to another officer, and he got a little shock. He hadn’t realised Blake was among his audience - even if his attention appeared to be focused elsewhere, he may have heard some of it. He took a gulp of hot tea that scorched his gullet and coughed.

Lee, who was sitting next to him, nudged him in the ribs as the other lads started up a rendition of _The Poor Old Weaver's Daughter._ “Looks like you’ve acquired a new admirer, Dick,” he murmured. “Blake was pretending so hard not to be listening earlier his ears might as well’ve fallen off from the effort.”

Startled by the insinuation, but at the same time strangely pleased, Richard tried to laugh it off. “Good for the Colonel, he knows how to recognise raw talent when he hears it.”

“Seems to me he appreciates other talents in you as well.” Lee lowered his voice. “I like you, Dick, so I’m warning you, as a friend. D’you know what some of the men are calling you?”

Richard shook his head, not laughing anymore. Dreading to hear Lee’s next words.

“The Colonel’s whore. That’s what they’re calling you. Ackroyd has already changed his tune from _Dick likes a tight fit_ to _Dick likes /being/ a tight fit._ ”

“That’s absurd,” Richard said. A practised lie. The grin he gave Lee was practised, too. “All Blake talks about is what he’s going to do with his wife when he goes on leave. Can’t wait to get some free pussy myself. I’m sick of paying out of pocket to have a bored French whore suck my prick.”

A year at the front had taught him how men like Ackroyd talked. It was the only language they understood - alien to him, but easy enough to emulate, even if his heart ached a little thinking of Suzanne, her flask of clandestine liqueur and her small hands stroking his hair. But to be sure, Lee grinned back at him.

“Amen to that, brother.”

“Ellis.” Blake had stepped closer to the circle, and Richard reckoned it was a good thing Lee couldn’t tell just how strongly his insides reacted to that low, gruff voice alone. Blake gave a jerk of his head. “Come with me. You made a mess with my boots this morning.”

Richard had indeed made a bit of a mess that morning, although he believed the innuendo was completely unintentional on Blake’s part. He emptied his cup and got up to follow, rolling his eyes at the other men behind Blake’s back. _Tiresome fellow._ They sent him sympathetic grins. When he caught Ackroyd’s gaze, he went one step further, making an obscene gesture with his hand and smirking like the good sport they knew him to be. Getting angry or upset would only feed the rumours - some good-natured ridicule was, in his experience, the best way to take the wind out of those sails quickly and efficiently.

Maybe he didn’t always know what was good for him, but when it came to high stakes poker, no one played the game better than him. Ackroyd was no match, really.

“I received a telegram,” Blake said once they were in the dugout. He lit a candle. “We’re finally going home, Ellis. Write your parents to let them know you’ll see them soon.”

Best news Richard had had all year. Even if he’d been somewhat prepared for it, he still needed a moment to compute. His face glowed, as did his stomach, warmed by the tea. “Thank you, Sir, I’m -”

He didn’t see the kiss coming. Blake’s hands grasped his shoulders as he claimed his lips, sudden but less roughly than Richard had come to accept was Blake’s way. It was over before he could react, and a whimper escaped him as Blake pulled back to look at him. He reached down to unbutton Richard’s trousers with one hand. His eyes were dark, searching. “You sing beautifully,” he said, unusually sincere. “I didn’t know that. The rest of the lot are a bunch of hoarse crows compared to you.”

“I - I sang at Mass as a boy,” Richard offered, stammering, as Blake drew him out of his trousers and he felt himself swelling into his calloused hand. Blake had never taken the lead like this - he’d always taken before giving.

“Choir boy, huh?” Blake’s eyes danced. He licked his palm and reached down to grip Richard anew, rolling his wrist. Richard’s knees buckled. “Ought’t’ve known.”

“Please, Sir,” Richard moaned and Blake kissed him again. This time, Richard had the presence of mind to respond, winding his fingers into Blake’s hair. It was too short on the sides but long enough on top, that was how he liked it cut and Richard had gotten quite good. Then, to his astonishment, Blake pulled away a second time and got to his knees. Before Richard could catch up mentally, he felt Blake’s tongue on his prick. “Sir - Sir, you don’t have to -”

“Shut up, Ellis,” Blake cut him off roughly. “Just… just shut up.”

Blake was not experienced at all and it showed, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. Richard’s brain nearly short-circuited when he watched those lips close around him, taking him slowly deeper, more eagerness than actual skill to it, but Blake’s mouth was all softness and wet heat and Richard couldn’t stop from moaning joyfully as Blake stroked him with his tongue and sucked. These moments, illicit and stolen though they might be, were the only source of warmth and joy to be had in this hellhole and he couldn’t but grasp and hold on to them with both hands for as long as he was able to.

Soon he was whimpering, “Sir, I’m, I’m about to -” and Blake released him immediately, getting to his feet and using his hand to finish him off, angling him to avoid soiling his uniform - Richard half off his mind with pleasure, barely possessing the mental wherewithal to plant his feet wide so his boots and puttees wouldn’t catch the brunt.

“Look at me,” Blake rumbled, and Richard obeyed, cheeks burning with arousal and humiliation as he twitched and spent himself under Blake’s piercing blue gaze, the urge to look away growing stronger with every spurt, but he managed to resist and that triumph only heightened his pleasure. When he was done, his knees gave out and he slowly collapsed to the floor, inadvertently reversing their positions. He was sure he didn’t make for a very dignified picture, knees spread wide open and flagging cock between his legs, but Blake didn’t seem to care. He reached down and stroked Richard’s cheek for a few moments of unprecedented tenderness. But it passed, and then he was impatiently unbuckling himself, again with one hand. The other was cupping Richard’s chin, his head almost too heavy to stay up unassisted. He was reeling from his orgasm, but when Blake drew out his own hard cock, he felt a weak tug in his belly all the same.

“Open up,” Blake said hoarsely, stroking himself, and barely had Richard complied or his mouth was roughly claimed, the thrust hard and deep, but Richard could be accommodating if Blake needed him to be. He kept still, willed his jaw to relax as Blake grasped his hair and pulled his head to the side so he could see. “Yes,” he hissed when Richard hollowed his cheeks and swallowed. “You suck it so well, Ellis, ah -”

Richard moaned, and through some great effort lifted his eyes up to Blake even though this time he hadn’t been told to, staring up at him and watching Blake’s superior restraint crumble as he slipped back and forth within the circle of Richard’s chapped lips. Knees planted wide, he was leaning back on his hands and doing very little other than trying to stay upright while Blake used his mouth, but he loved it, God, he was fucking loving every second of it.

“Oh, fuck… Jesus _Christ_.” Blake’s fingernails scraped Richard’s skull and Richard tasted salt, keeping his eyes turned upwards even as they teared. He swallowed and Blake muttered, “Damn you, Ellis, damn you to everlasting _hell_ ,” just before he went over the edge himself. He didn’t release Richard until he’d finished, only to then stagger back and end up sitting on his bunk, elbows on knees and head in his hands. Whatever connection had existed between them a moment ago was gone, and Richard felt forlorn again. With wooden fingers he tucked himself back into his trousers.

“I’m happy to be going home next week, Sir,” he softly offered, and after a moment or two, Blake gave a little chuckle, lifting up his head.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah, me too, lad.”

Slowly, with carefully controlled movements, Richard places the cufflinks he must have picked up while he was mentally far away back into the box and collects himself for a moment, making sure the images have well and truly faded before turning around. And not a minute too soon, as it turns out.

“Come here and look at these tweeds, Ellis. Which do you think His Majesty would prefer?”

So not only is he here for more than decorative purposes, he is being asked to give his opinion - on the subject of tweeds, no less. Blimey, his acting skills are really being put to the test today. Well, that's all right. He hasn't spent all these years honing them for nothing, and if he can act the bigot to talk Thomas out of the clutches of the law, he suppose he can feign an interest in His Majesty’s tweeds to avoid prying questions from Mr. Miller. He’s had quite enough of those for the day. Miller may be a worthier opponent than most, especially that lightweight Ackroyd, but Richard did manage once to work alongside him for an entire day without him cottoning on to the fact that Richard was fairly hungover after a late-night bender, so it seems his poker face can still save him.

 _Whatever it takes to get by,_ he’d said to Thomas. Anything to stay in the game and keep a seat at the table. Tapping out - even for a round, a breather, _anything_ \- is not an option.

But oh, God. Sometimes, and these days more than ever, he truly wishes it was.


	4. Richard (cont'd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: see previous chapter :)

It is a tour de force, but Richard somehow manages to pull himself together and resist further reminiscing about the damn war for the duration of their errands, but when they return to the Palace with a little time to spare before lunch - His Majesty’s gone out for the day - Richard seizes the opportunity to retreat to his room and catch up on correspondence. He’s sent two letters off to Downton in recent days and is still waiting for a reaction, trying to convince himself Thomas must have had a good reason for taking a bit longer to reply than usual. Sometimes he is even successful, even though the lack of a letter in this morning’s post was a bit of a blow. He has his hopes fixed on the evening post now.

He turns the wireless on - a little chamber music helps him focus on the writing, even though he doesn't get the luxury often as he usually tends to his correspondence late at night. He is not supposed to have a wireless, not really, but so long as he keeps the volume down his superiors seem willing to look the other way.

(Coincidentally, it was Miller who helped him smuggle the contraband equipment into his room as a quid pro quo, on the proviso that he never be implicated as an accessory if Richard were to get in trouble over it. And of course he’d had some choice words to say on that occasion about the frivolity of popular music. _You could ask me anything in return for the favour you did me, and you choose a /wireless/? I'll never understand you, Ellis._ Or words to that effect.)

He finishes a letter to Theo he began the day before and then takes a blank sheet of paper to start a letter to another old friend from his days as a footman, one he’s been neglecting for a while, although knowing Beatrice she’s unlikely to harbour a grudge over it. It hasn’t always been easy to stay in touch with her, especially so in the immediate aftermath of the war, because Beatrice had seen rather too much of the reckless youngster Richard was trying to leave behind at the time. That naive fool had almost let himself be annihilated by the conflict and by Blake, and Richard was done with him, done with that version of himself.

In early November of 1915, after a long journey over sea - the Cliffs of Dover beckoning to him from afar, as welcome a sight as he’d ever seen - and land, he’d spent a few blissful days on leave at his parents’ house in York, being pampered and tutted over by his Mum, when he received an invitation in the mail. An invitation to a private dinner at Hazlewood Hall, to be exact, hosted by Mrs. Michael Blake. Attached to the invitation was a courteous little note from the hostess herself, stating that she was looking forward to making his acquaintance.

He considered writing back to politely refuse, but when he so much as breathed a word of this to his Mum, she told him off, saying he couldn’t in good conscience refuse such a courteous invitation from his employer. And since he couldn’t conceivably begin to explain to his Mum why such a visit might prove awkward, and because in his heart he did long to see Blake, even if it was in his wife’s presence, he wrote to accept instead.

Hazlewood was not very near, and it was settled in advance that Richard would stay until the morning. (“So very kind of them,” his mother said, as he smiled and pretended not to feel sick at the prospect of staying under the Blakes’ roof.) The day before the visit, he attended Mass with his parents and felt like all sorts of a sinner and hypocrite when during the Holy Communion, the priest presiding over the service murmured, “God bless you for your service, child,” as he placed the wafer representing the body of Christ on Richard’s tongue. That night, before turning in, he knelt on the floor of his room for almost twenty minutes praying, begging the Lord to give him the strength to resist temptation, so that he might pass this test. But even as he communed with God like this, earnest in his intentions and desire to be a better man, another voice kept piping in unbidden, reminding him that he was already going to hell for what he was anyway, so what could be the harm in sinning some more?

At only twenty-four, he was struggling to come to terms with the fact that feeling torn in two like this was something he’d have to deal with the rest of his natural life, however long or short it may be.

The dinner at the Blakes’ went more or less as expected. Mrs. Blake was young and pretty, kind to Richard, doting on her two beautiful children with all the dignified affection a woman of the upper class was able to show in company. During the dinner, she let slip that she and the Colonel were hoping to expand their family.

“After the war,” Blake said gruffly, clearly none too pleased to hear such a personal matter discussed at the dinner table.

“When God wills it,” said his wife, and Richard had to put down knife and fork and sip water until his stomach settled, although her next question didn’t exactly help with that. “Are you a man of religion, Private?” He told her he was. “Married? Engaged?”

“No… no, Ma’am.”

“Leave the poor lad alone, darling,” Blake cut in, shutting down the line of inquiry to Richard’s relief. “He’s young. His mind is no more on marriage than mine was at that age."

“Well,” she said daintily, “I won you over eventually, didn’t I? As I’m sure some lucky girl will put thoughts of that nature in your mind, Private Ellis.”

“I’m sure, Ma’am.”

Richard was on edge the entire dinner, not least because it felt inappropriate and deeply wrong to be sharing a table with his betters instead of standing in a corner with his footman’s livery on, but what came after the dinner was even more bewildering. Mrs. Blake announced she was going through, leaving her husband and Richard in the dining room. Brandy was poured, cigars presented. Baffled, Richard refused the latter, but Blake told him off with a grin. “Go on, Ellis, try one. A man should know how to smoke a cigar.”

Richard could have sworn he saw the butler sending him a disapproving look as he left the room - clearly the man considered Richard to be as out of place here as he himself felt, but he conceded and lit up. The first drag hit him unpleasantly - he’d been prepared for it to pack a bigger punch than a cigarette, but _Christ -_

“Common mistake,” said Blake, and smiled as Richard coughed, spouting smoke everywhere. “Don’t inhale the smoke over your lungs, Ellis - savour it in your mouth.”

“I - I don’t think this is for me, Sir,” Richard gasped when he’d recovered enough of his breath.

“Don’t write it off just yet. It’s an acquired taste, so take your time - no rush.” Blake smoked calmly, confidently reclining, and Richard couldn’t help but notice how good he looked doing it, the brandy glass cradled between his fingers. He was regarding Richard through a veil of smoke, and Richard felt his cheeks heat up under the scrutiny. Not wishing to give offense, he took another measured drag of the cigar, trying to imitate Blake’s example even if there was very little hope of looking even half as distinguished as his host. He slowly blew out, impressed by the thickness of the smoke. Blake nodded. “Try the brandy,” he prompted, and Richard did. It was strong stuff, but excellent.

“It’s very good, Sir.”

“Simple pleasures, Ellis. A nutritious dinner in our bellies, a nice cigar and strong drink to top it off, a soft bed to sleep in later - we had best enjoy them while we can, am I right?”

“I’m not sure I’d call them simple, Sir,” Richard said earnestly, and Blake chuckled. He was almost a different man here - relaxed, charming, like a king presiding over his court.

“No, I suppose you’re right. I’m a blessed man. I may not have a title to my name, like the lords and ladies you used to work for in London, but I have this estate and some fortune to call my own. A good wife, healthy children… what more could a man want?”

“Peace,” Richard said, almost without thinking, and blushed when Blake looked at him in surprise.

“You are putting me in my place tonight, Ellis,” he said after a moment. “Of course, peace. Let us drink to that.”

They stayed at the table for several hours, drinking brandy and talking, their first true, honest-to-God conversation, and Richard eventually felt himself relaxing, perhaps in no small part due to the brandy. He didn’t often get to indulge like this, and he felt woozy and lightheaded, the alcohol warming his stomach and clouding his brain pleasantly. When they finally got up and went through to the drawing room, staggering a little and in a very merry mood, they found it empty and were informed by the butler that Mrs. Blake had already gone up a while ago.

“Oh, I’ve done it now, Ellis,” Blake muttered, more chastised child than man of the military, “coming to bed late _and_ drunk, two capital sins rolled into one.”

“You’re not drunk, Sir,” Richard said, but he had to support Blake up the stairs all the same. “Do you need me to undress you?”

“Don’t be silly, Ellis,” Blake slurred, “you’re off duty, here as a guest. Sykes, the butler, has got me covered.”

“It’s no trouble, Sir, I’m sure Mr. Sykes has got plenty -”

“No, no, I insist,” Blake said, and Richard took that to mean he simply didn’t want Richard in his marital bedroom. While perfectly understandable, Richard couldn’t deny the rejection hurt, like a dart to the heart.

“Guest room’s that way, down the corridor,” Blake said when they reached the upstairs. “Really, Ellis, I’ll be fine from here, no need to fuss.” He didn’t sound prickly about it, though, quite to the contrary - Richard imagined he saw regret flash in Blake’s eyes when he released his arm.

“Good night, then, Sir.”

“Good night.” There was a beat, and then, slowly, Blake lifted his hand and placed his palm against Richard’s cheek. He swayed a little on his feet, and Richard could smell the alcohol and traces of the cigar on his breath, more intoxicating even than the first-hand experience itself. For a long, breathless moment, Richard thought Blake might follow him instead, into his room, into his bed, and he allowed himself to imagine it - the clumsy undressing, the skin to skin, the slow, tender explorations of hands and mouths. The expression on Blake’s face when he was inside Richard fully, like Richard wasn’t sure he’d ever been inside a man before.

If Blake did follow - all his prayers notwithstanding - Richard knew he wouldn’t have the strength to refuse him. He’d sin again, enthusiastically, and deal with the regret later.

But after another moment or two, Blake took his hand away. Stepped back, and suddenly there was a vastness gaping between them, the spell broken. “Good night,” he murmured again, and that was all.

Richard nodded, and for a few moments he could only stand there, watching Blake’s back as he walked away before he turned towards his own room, the pleasant brandy-induced dizziness now becoming a dull ache that seemed to envelop his entire head. He spent a restless and lonely night in a comfortable but strange bedroom, wishing he were at his parents’ house instead, and eventually he settled at the east-facing bay window to watch the sun come up, his only comfort that of the passage of time and the knowledge that soon he’d be able to make his excuses to leave that wretched place. Sykes knocking on his door to announce breakfast came as a last-minute stay of execution to a man already on his way to the gallows. But when he came downstairs and found Blake already sitting at the breakfast table, a smile from the master of the house was all it took to make his resolve crack once more, and he despaired at his own spinelessness.

“Will you join me and the dogs for a walk after breakfast?” Blake asked. “There is no need to rush back to York, is there? I’d like to show you the grounds,” and at this point Richard really didn’t know what to think anymore, but nodded. He could hardly do anything else.

They ended up taking a long stroll, two playful foxhounds bounding at their heels, and even though the flowerbeds were empty and the trees bare, Richard could see there was beauty in the place. “Come spring, these gardens will be transformed,” Blake said, and Richard believed him. “The advantage of employing the same gardener my father hired almost forty years ago. He knows the soil like no other and even if he’s not as agile as he used to be, at least we have the certainty that he won’t be drafted.”

Blake talked and talked during that hour they were out together, more than Richard could remember hearing him talk before, his love and knowledge of the land shining through, and by the time they returned to the house, Richard was almost as in love with the place as he now realised he was with the man lording over it all.

“My wife is out having tea with some ladies from the village,” Blake said as Sykes peeled him out of his coat. Richard, of course, was left to his own devices. “Sykes, will you bring up some tea to my study for my guest and myself? We’re cold.”

“Very good, Sir.”

“I really ought to be going back before too long, Sir,” Richard weakly protested this new unexpected delay. “My Mum will be worried if I’m not home by lunchtime.”

“Let her save her worrying for when you’re back at the front,” Blake said. “Come, I want to show you what the house looked like before my father had it renovated and made it what it is today.”

Soon, they were settled in Blake’s study, a handsome room with dark wood paneling, lined floor to ceiling with books, works of art and the like. For a country gentleman who claimed to be on the poorer side of his family tree, Blake sure liked to surround himself with comfort and luxury.

“Nothing of great value here,” Blake said when he caught Richard inspecting the paintings. “I’m a military man, Ellis, not an art collector. These are mostly inherited anyway.”

Sykes came with tea, cast a judgmental glance in Richard’s direction, poured two cups and went, closing the door behind him. Then they were truly alone, and Richard found himself struggling to focus on the drawings Blake was showing him. For him, the estate’s main appeal was in the surrounding lands, not in the house, and when Blake leaned across to point something out on the drawing they were perusing, the brush of his hand against Richard’s wrist sent a bolt of heat through his gut.

He’d done that on purpose. Richard was sure of it. For all his skill in the art of war, a veritable Casanova Blake was not. It was all about reading the signs with him. Something Richard liked to think he’d gotten quite good at.

Slowly, gazing into Blake’s eyes, he murmured, “Anything I can do for you… Sir?” And as he did so, something in those eyes shifted, and the air between them vibrated with whatever this thing was that had been building and building since Richard stepped into his damn house and Blake came forward with a beaming smile to shake his hand, and before he’d consciously decided to act, he was leaning in and his heart sang when Blake met him halfway with his lips.

_Yes - yes yes yes._

The kiss was… enthusiastic, and getting more so with each passing second. Pressing forward, Richard slipped his fingers into the hair at Blake’s nape and opened his mouth, using his tongue to get Blake to do the same. Suddenly, they were no longer side by side but front to front, their hips pressed flush together, rutting slowly as they devoured each other, and Richard felt dizzy again, empowered beyond belief by the way Blake was responding to him, the friction of their cocks through the khaki. Blake moaned into his mouth, and even that further turned his insides to jelly.

Blake was fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers now, trying to get his hand inside impatiently, but Richard stopped him. “I want you inside me,” he breathed, and Blake’s pupils flared. “Please, Sir.”

“I’m - God, Ellis - wouldn’t we need -”

Disappointed, Richard bit his lip. Blake’s low growl made his guts churn with pure need, and he came within an inch of replying that they could make do with spit - hell, Blake could take him dry if need be, he was so desperate at that point - but thankfully he found a shred of sanity just in time to hold his tongue.

But he would have Blake’s cock between his legs one way or another.

“My thighs, then.” He pulled down his trousers and Blake followed suit, looking uncertain of himself. His cock, however, showed no signs of hesitation at all.

“You mean - what should I -”

“Here, Sir - like this.”

If there was any resistance left in Blake by that point, it snapped the second Richard turned around, bracing himself on the desk, and reached back to guide Blake’s cock between his legs.

Blake actually whimpered. “Oh, fuck, Ellis -” He paused barely long enough to spit into his palm and then Richard felt him nudge between his thighs. Richard placed his feet closer together for an even snugger fit.

“Thrust, Sir, I can take it.”

“Yeah,” Blake grunted, as he pulled slowly back, stroking Richard’s buttock. “There’s not a lot you can’t take, is there?” He grasped Richard’s hip for leverage, the other hand gripping the back of his tunic as he snapped his own hips forward, and Richard felt him right up against him, and moaned deliriously. From there, things spiraled quickly. The hard edge of the desk pressed distractingly into his flesh he was bent over the top, the now forgotten drawings crinkling under his elbows, but he revelled in the animalistic nature of it, the press of Blake’s thighs nudging him forward with every thrust, and he reached down to wrap shaking fingers around his own prick, hollowing his back. It was almost perfect, the way he was being taken, only a little vaseline could have improved upon it.

Richard felt Blake’s hand pushing up his tunic and shirt as far as they would go. Between that and his trousers sagging around his knees, held in place only by his puttees, he was completely bare from the shoulders down almost, and it heightened his arousal, his skin flushed and burning, and he worked his arm faster, rolling back his hips impatiently when Blake faltered for a moment.

“Please, Sir,” he begged, but the rest of the plea shriveled on his lips when he felt Blake’s fingers slowly caressing his back in an almost reverent way he hadn’t expected, and he slowed, panting, almost not catching Blake’s next words.

“Incredible,” the older man choked out. “Not a mark on you.”

Richard licked his dry lips with a dry tongue. “Been lucky so far, Sir.”

“Best not jinx it, lad,” Blake grunted, even though, in retrospect, they probably had already, and he fisted his hand into the back of Richard’s tunic and resumed fucking him hard against the desk, the thrust rough and forceful and exactly how Richard wanted it. He was completely lost in pleasure, not even watching the door on the slim chance Sykes were to walk in - if that were to happen, there was absolutely no hope of hiding or saving face, he was spread out on Blake’s desk all but naked, wanton and begging, and he was so far gone that the thought only made his prick throb harder. He had barely enough presence of mind left to muffle his moans in his sleeve. Blake did not have that luxury, and was breathing hard behind him, his fingers gripping Richard’s hip and tunic like iron vises, his thrusts getting more erratic but no less vigorous. More so, if anything. Heat coiled in Richard’s belly. He was close, so close to falling apart.

“Come on me, Sir,” he heard himself gasping. “Please.”

“Giving me orders now, Ellis?” Blake groaned, a grin in his voice if not on his face. “I ought to have you whipped for your cheek.”

“I apologise, Sir, but please - _please_ give me this.”

Blake chuckled, and to Richard’s great surprise, leaned down. A moment later, Richard felt his lips brush his skin, softly softly between his shoulder blades. “I suppose I can indulge you there,” he murmured, and Richard damn near came right then, almost pushed over the edge by that sultry promise. Blake straightened up, planted his feet wider, and with just a few more furious upward thrusts of his hips into Richard, he was right there himself. “Oh, fuck, _yeah_ -” At the very last second, he released his hold on Richard’s tunic and used that hand to grasp his own cock instead, sliding it up Richard’s cleft and pressing it up against his entrance as he started to come, holding himself right there through every spurt. With the other hand he cupped Richard’s buttock, spreading him with his thumb.

Richard whined, “Sir, do - do you have anything for…”

Because he was about to come all over these bloody drawings. He’d already stopped moving his hand, but that didn’t seem to help much. Blake’s thumb was circling him slowly, nudging at his entrance, and his cock twitched.

“What, Ellis,” Blake murmured distractedly.

“Your desk, Sir, _ah_ -”

“Right pocket,” Blake said, both hands otherwise engaged, and Richard reached back in blind desperation, managing to pull from said pocket a handkerchief. “It’s clean,” Blake said, and under any other circumstances Richard might have laughed hysterically.

“It won’t be much longer.”

Blake didn’t respond. His thumb was still moving in circles, zeroing in, testing the give of the muscle. Then just a little push and he was slipping in, just the tip, then more. “Jesus,” he muttered, pressing slowly deeper, and Richard gasped, rolled his hips back, encouraging the breach. Looking over his shoulder to see Blake squeezing the head of his spent cock as he slipped his thumb back and forth inside Richard. “Jesus. Jesus.”

It was all too much. Overwhelmed, bruised and smarting from Blake’s rough handling, Richard came into that handkerchief with several powerful convulsions, hearing Blake moan and realising he was stroking himself with a white-knuckled fist, his thumb buried in Richard up to the last knuckle.

_Guess Blake’s the one who likes a tight fit._

By all rights, they ought to have set themselves right in a scramble, but even after he had pulled out, Blake couldn’t seem to stop caressing Richard’s buttocks and flanks, and Richard couldn’t find it in him to hurry him along. After about a minute, though, Blake stepped away and buckled up while Richard drew the handkerchief between his legs, making an effort to get himself clean before restoring his decency.

Barely had he done so or Blake surprised him with another kiss, his hand briefly touching Richard’s waist. “I was rough,” he said, the words themselves coming out gruffly, but Richard heard the unspoken apology.

“Not too much… Sir.”

“Like your men a bit brusque, eh?” Blake chuckled, and Richard didn’t know how to respond to that. He blushed, and Blake began gathering his drawings, to roll up and put away. Apparently they were done with the study of architecture.

“We - we could have this always, Sir,” he heard himself saying, as he fastened his trousers, smoothed down his tunic.

“What do you mean, always?”

“This. You and me. After the war.”

Blake’s hands stilled. “What are you talking about? Of course we can’t.”

“We could, Sir. I know a way. If you were to take me on as your valet -”

Blake’s reply was sharp, immediate. “No.”

“Consider it, Sir, please. I’d be discreet, I pro-”

“Discreet, like you were just now?” Blake laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “I enjoyed our little romp, Ellis, but let’s not pretend this is something we could get away with in the long term. You are far too young to be a valet, for one. It’s one thing at the front, but here, I’d have to consider seniority… noses’d be put out of joint.”

“A footman, then. Or a gardener’s aid. You said it yourself, he’s not as agile as he used to be. Just - just take me on, Sir. Please.”

So he was begging now. Begging for a job that was beneath him, that would take him away from London and everything he’d been working towards since he was seventeen.

“For fuck’s sake, Ellis - I have a wife who isn’t blind, gossiping staff, a reputation to uphold in the village. I took a vow of marriage before God, I can’t be carrying on with some - some _child_ on the side.”

That hit Richard unpleasantly - he wasn’t a child, hadn’t been for some time - but above all, he was genuinely confused. As pathetic as he felt for begging for a place in Blake’s life, any place, he knew he hadn’t imagined the affection he’d tasted in that kiss, or in that touch to his face the night before. He could not have been _this_ wrong. He stammered, “But... but the cigars, the brandy, the tour of the gardens -”

Blake scoffed, “What, you think because I'm a good host that I was asking you to be my, what, my _mistress?_ Do you think this is going to end like some silly fairy tale, where I take you in and we carry on a torrid love affair while my wife looks the other way? What is _wrong_ with you?”

The scathing words sliced like knives, and Richard knew in that moment that these hopes he’d been building in his head would come to naught, and it felt like a knife between his ribs. “But there is something between us, Sir, I know there is. You must have felt it, surely, when -”

Blake jerked his head, his demeanour growing icier still. “There is _nothing_. A bout of foolishness born from convenience, Ellis, that’s all this is. A bit of release, an indulgence. Don’t confuse it for more than that.”

Richard could feel something inside him dying off, a coldness creeping in. “You don't fuck someone like that just because it's _convenient_... Sir.”

Blake's eyes flashed dangerously. Richard had almost forgotten about his unpleasant side, but it was there, hidden no longer. “Be very careful with that tongue, lad.”

“Or what, you'll have me whipped?”

The words burst out of him, harsh like he normally never was. He wondered if Blake would strike him for his insolence.

He did not. But he might as well have, as his next words were like a punch to the solar plexus.

“I don’t know what fancies you’ve been entertaining, Ellis, but I'm not like you. I'm _normal_ , do you understand?”

 _Normal._ Richard physically flinched and bowed his head, blinking back tears and hating himself for the response. Somehow, it seemed to give Blake pause, as he took a minute to continue, and when he did, he’d softened his tone.

“Please, Ellis. Stop being so soft, or the front will eat you alive in the end. The war effort needs men, not -”

“Sissies,” Richard whispered, and Blake, to his credit, looked uncomfortable.

“I didn’t say that.”

 _You didn’t have to._ Richard balled his fists powerlessly.

“I think it would be best if you dismissed me from your service, Sir,” he said, soft, and Blake stared at him dumbstruck, not unlike Moses must have done when he encountered the burning bush and heard the voice of God speaking to him.

“Now, Ellis, let’s not do anything rash. There's no reason we can't be... civilised about this. I have grown rather fond of you,” - these words cut deepest of all -, “and you are an excellent batman, I would be sorry to find another.”

“I truly think it would be best, Sir,” Richard insisted tonelessly. “Like you said, you have your reputation to consider, and there’s already rumours out there.”

That got Blake’s attention, at least. “What rumours?”

“You shouldn’t take it too seriously, Sir, it’s just gossip. When there is no fighting, men get bored, and bored soldiers are worse than spinsters -”

Blake cut him off, growling, “What rumours, damn it!”

Richard straightened his shoulders, Blake’s reaction almost satisfying. _Almost._ “I’ve heard some men whisper that… that you like a tight fit. Sir.”

A resounding silence followed. By all rights, Blake’s shocked expression ought to have given Richard some vindication. Instead, he merely felt sad.

“It is getting late,” Blake finally said, composing himself. “Your mother will be worried, like you said. I have arranged for my chauffeur to drive you to the station.”

With barely ten more words spoken between them, Richard left, the soiled handkerchief still in his pocket, crumpled into a wad. He burned it later that day. His Mum clearly sensed there was something the matter with him, but after seeing a few questions deflected, she gave up trying to pry it out of him. He had the nagging feeling, however, that she’d already half guessed the cause of his despondency, and when there was a letter from Blake a few days later, he probably further confirmed her suspicions when he couldn’t snatch it out of her hand and take it up to his room quickly enough.

Perhaps part of him still hoped to have his feelings returned - in fact, he was certain that was the case - but the envelope only contained a reference letter, addressed to anyone whose employment Richard might seek in the future, and a glowing reference it was too. Richard stared at the colonel’s angular handwriting for a long time, soaking up the warm praise Blake had poured onto the page and wondering what he’d felt when he wrote it all down. If he’d meant it, and if he’d ever felt anything for Richard at all, or if it had all been in his head after all. Questions he knew he’d never get answers to.

Also enclosed was the calling card of a London-based marquis who was known to Richard only by name. Richard wrote, and heard back immediately. The marquis was nearing sixty (“but fighting fit and ready to face the Hun, I assure you!”), about to join the war effort and looking for an experienced batman. Astonishingly, it turned out Richard had been recommended to him by Lt Col Michael Blake. It all would have been too good to be true, a major stepping stone in his career, if not for the fact that Richard was heartsick over that bastard Blake and the prospect of returning to the front with winter fast approaching, but he and the kindly marquis got on and it was settled.

(Ironically, when it came time for Richard to find work in post-war London, it was the marquis whose recommendation set him on a fast track to Buckingham Palace, so in a sense, indirectly speaking, he has Blake to thank for quite a bit of it, and he isn’t sure how he feels about that even today.)

He stares at the paper in front of him. He’s written just two words, the ink long since dried.

_Dear Beatrice,_

He doesn’t think of Blake often at all, and he isn’t quite sure why he can’t seem to stop doing so today. Yes, he damn near got himself killed at the Somme and made an idiot of himself at the convalescent home, mind addled by sepsis-induced delirium, but his heart eventually healed, as did - more or less - the rest of him. He’s since learned to think more softly and forgivingly of the foolish youngster he was then, who had his head turned by a handsome officer and thought it love. But for some reason he can’t quite get his finger behind, he can’t stop tormenting himself with the memories of that hour in Blake’s study, when he’d offered himself to the man like a shameless tart without any consideration spared for his own life, his parents’ good name, all that would be ruined if anyone had so much as passed by and listened at the door while Blake had his way with him, nevermind walked in and seen him in all his depraved glory, being forcefully taken and still begging for more.

In hindsight, perhaps some of the things that happened at the farmhouse back in February shouldn’t have come as such a surprise after all. But in the years following the war, he’d come to believe - or maybe he’d made himself believe it - he’d outgrown… all that.

He doesn't particularly want to pick up that argument with himself again, but when he tries to divert his thoughts to something else (like this bloody letter to Beatrice, to name one) his brain ambushes him with the memory of their last night together, of him rubbing himself against Thomas's arse while he was barely conscious and Thomas offering his thighs instead of kicking Richard to the floor like he had every right to. 

He can’t for the life of him bring himself to think of _Thomas_ as a tart for offering himself like that, though. Thomas hadn’t done it for his own pleasure, but for Richard’s, so in a sense, Richard was the tart in that scenario, too. Thomas simply indulged him, because he is generous like that and for some reason that escapes understanding, he cares about Richard.

Richard finds it humbling, to be on the receiving end of that kind of affection, so unselfishly bestowed. It makes him smile, in spite of everything, the memory of Thomas that night, the nearness of him, the firm grip of those incredible thighs and the way his body had looked that first evening in particular, silhouetted against the glow of the fire - it even stirs something in him, for the first time this week, and even though now is hardly the time to indulge, Richard promises himself to put these thoughts on hold until tonight. Provided he doesn’t collapse into bed half comatose as he’s been doing far too often recently.

He is just putting away his writing supplies - he’ll continue the letter to Beatrice later - when there is a knock on the door and a muffled voice announces, “Miller.”

Richard gets up with a sigh to open the door. Richard supposes he ought to be glad the man respects another’s privacy - unlike certain others - but it would be easier if the man just turned the handle and stuck his head in to say whatever he’d come to say. Besides, he’s already had his dose of Miller for the day, but he puts on his politest smile all the same.

“Mr. Miller, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Miller looks him up and down, a little too attentively for Richard’s liking. “Are you all right? Couldn’t help but notice you slugging up the stairs earlier. If your back is bothering you, I can bring up a hot water bo-”

“My back is just fine, thank you.” Richard is barely clinging to patience. “You came here specifically to inquire about my health, Mr. Miller? Because if so, I have rather more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Phone call for you downstairs.” Miller is feigning indifference rather too emphatically. “Mr. Timothy Bryce, holding very patiently. He hasn’t called in a while, has he?”

“Mind your own business, Miller.” Richard hopes with everything he has in him that he doesn’t sound and breathless as he suddenly feels. It’s true, Thomas said he’d regularly call, but it’ll be the first time they speak since the farmhouse and it still feels unexpected. Why call in the middle of the day, unless -

_God, don’t let it be bad news._

“It’s funny,” Miller is saying as Richard shoulders past him, “Mr. Bryce’s voice sounds somehow familiar, but I can’t put the finger on it.”

“Don’t worry too much about it, Alan, it isn’t unusual for people of a certain age to imagine things.”

It would not be considered appropriate for a royal valet to be seen sprinting - unless there was some sort of life or death situation, and even then - but that is what Richard does and anyone who may have anything to say about it will be the next to get a tongue lashing.

He picks up the receiver and does not pause to catch his breath first. “Mr. Bryce?”

Because it’s the Palace, and someone could always be listening in.

“Mr. Ellis.” Thomas’s voice in his ear is a welcome sound, sorely needed especially today, and Richard can already feel the ghosts of the past slowly backing off as he closes his eyes for a second to savour it. “Is - is everything all right?”

“I could ask you the same question. Are _you_ all right?”

“Of course I am,” Richard says automatically. He’s said it so often he could almost believe it himself. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You quoted Shakespeare to me, for one,” Thomas drily responds. “In one of your recent letters.”

Richard catches himself grinning at the wall. “Didn’t know that constituted a reason for concern.”

“So… you _are_ all right?” Thomas asks again, and Richard sighs.

“Am now.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

“I’m fine, Thomas. Truly. Just been running around in circles getting ready for Windsor. And -” He hesitates, just for a moment. “Been having the war on the brain, I suppose.”

“The war? Silly man,” Thomas chides gently. “Don’t you know better by now?”

“Apparently I don’t.”

“Well, here’s something to take your mind off all that.” Here, Thomas allows for a brief, but dramatic silence. “Lord Grantham owes you a month’s wages. Or… well, someone does, anyway.”

“Oh?” Richard stretches his mind, trying to work out what Thomas could be referring to. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure -”

“Lady Hexham gave birth to a girl,” Thomas says triumphantly, clearly pleased with himself for the buildup. “Just like you said. We just heard it ourselves. I had to pick up the phone at once and give you gloating rights.”

Richard smiles, and all of a sudden finds himself blinking back tears. Dear God, what is _wrong_ with him today? “That’s lovely news,” he says, hoping Thomas can’t tell. “Lord Hexham must be chuffed to bits.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“Does she have a name yet?”

“Eleanor. Eleanor Violet.” A beat, and then Thomas continues with a smile in his voice, “And yes, I do find you very silly for caring, just so you know.”

Richard smiles fondly into the receiver, wishing with all his heart he could see Thomas’s face right now, even if he can picture it clear as day. “Be that as it may, I appreciate you calling so promptly to deliver the happy tiding. I eagerly await Lord Grantham’s cheque in the mail.”

“I will pass that on. I didn’t take you for a betting man, but you beat the house on this one. Upstairs, everyone but Lady Mary wagered money on a boy.”

“I do occasionally like to try my luck, Mr. Bryce.”

“I’ve noticed that about you, Mr. Ellis.”

It’s always been like this, Richard realises. It’s always been this _easy_ with Thomas. The banter, the back-and-forth, that sense of having found a kindred spirit. Someone to be on equal footing with. Something grounding and real, a presence outside these walls, a reminder that the world doesn’t stop at the gates of Buckingham Palace, like he sometimes feels it does.

_And what a godsend you are, for so many reasons._

“I admit I was starting to get worried,” he tells Thomas. “Two letters sent to Downton this week and no reply yet, I feared perhaps…” He trails off, unsure how to finish that sentence without sounding needy.

Thomas chuckles. “Yes, I know how hungry you are for some Downton drama, but I'm afraid there's not much to report on that front. Well, actually, we did have a bit of drama the other day, but that is rather too delicate to discuss on the phone, unfortunately. A broken casserole was involved.”

“A broken casserole sounds like something Mrs. Patmore may take umbrage at.”

“Footmen have faced her wrath for less in this house.”

“Ah, so am I to conclude a footman played a role in this as well? Curiouser and curiouser, Mr. Bryce.”

“I do wish I could tell you,” Thomas says, apologetic, and Richard knows it’s time to drop the subject.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can talk,” he says regretfully. “We're coming up on lunchtime, and Mr. Miller is being quite the tyrant. We were out together earlier this morning. Something of an ordeal.”

“I imagine so. The way you described your relationship was fascinating.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the half of it. We go back a ways.” Richard laughs. “It may amuse you to know he offered to bring up a hot water bottle earlier, a rare moment of humanity. Guess he felt guilty about dragging a crippled veteran all over town. He was disqualified for service himself, on account of night blindness, so he tends to forget half the male staff are like the walking wounded.”

“You need to pace yourself,” Thomas says, and Richard smiles. Somehow he doesn’t seem to mind when Thomas fusses. “Especially if your back is playing up.”

“Once H.M. is settled at Windsor, I’m sure things will slow down a bit. Don’t worry about me, Thomas.”

“I don’t. I just wish I could be there and rub it for you.” A beat, and then an embarrassed cough. “Your back, that is.”

Richard grins widely. “That’s what I thought you meant.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Not that I would have been disappointed if you meant the other thing.”

“I’m sure,” Thomas says primly, and Richard amuses himself for a moment by imagining him blushing. 

_Why, Mr. Barrow, I didn’t take you for such a coquette._

“Before you go,” Thomas says, keen to change the subject, “there is something I wanted to ask you, as regards that photograph you said your mother found.”

“Oh yes - what of it?” Richard is distracted still by Thomas’s slip of the tongue, as he thinks he has every right to, but Thomas’s next words do capture his attention.

Oh, do they ever.

“I - I was thinking… would it be all right if Phyllis - Miss Baxter, that is - if Miss Baxter and I picked it up at your Mum’s and took it around York? Sticking it under the local pub owners’ noses, as I think you put it? Phyllis has prior experience with that sort of investigative work, when Mr. Bates was in a bit of a pickle… So she’d be useful to have tagging along, but I’d understand if you’d rather -”

For the second time during this conversation, Richard finds himself having to fight back tears, but this time he isn’t embarrassed by his response. “Forgive me,” he says thickly, “but I’m not exactly sure why you think I would object to this.”

“Well - since it’d mean meeting your Mum… without you there to, er, smooth out the wrinkles when I inevitably end up sticking my foot in it… To break the ice, if it were…”

“Break the ice? Thomas,” realising belatedly he used the wrong name, well, the right name but the wrocng name, “my Mum is not an icy woman. She’ll have you sitting in her parlour stuffing your face with home-baked pie before you can blink. She has a gift for making people feel comfortable.”

“Family trait, huh,” Thomas murmurs, so softly that Richard almost doesn’t catch it. A silence follows, and Richard realises he’s never wanted to tell the man he loves him as much as he does in this moment.

“Thank you,” he says instead, soft. “I wish I had the words to convey how much this means to me. I would never have dared to ask you for such a favour.”

“A good thing you don’t have to, then,” Thomas says, a tad gruffly. Accepting praise or gratitude is not a forte of his. “So is it all right if I write to your Mum to settle things? And bring Miss Baxter? She’s trustworthy.”

“By all means, bring her. It’ll give me peace of mind, if anything, knowing you’ll have some company. I only wish I could join you.”

“I know, love,” Thomas says, quiet, and just that, hearing that one word spoken in his ear, makes Richard’s heart soar like it hasn’t in far too long.

It’ll keep him going for a while. It’ll have to. Easter is still weeks away.

“I have to go,” he says, with pain in his heart. “Thank you so much for calling. I needed some good news today.”

“You’re welcome. And for Christ’s sake, no more stewing over the war. Nothing good will come of that, you know.”

“You’re absolutely right, and it stops right now.”

If only keeping that promise were as easy as making it - but Richard doesn’t give that thought enough time to take root as they say their goodbyes and end the call. As he begins the long haul back up the stairs, there is a little bounce in his step that wasn’t there before, and for now… that is enough.


	5. Thomas

“Don't you think you've had enough of those for one morning?”

Thomas blinks, realising he’s holding his cigarette case in his fingers but not remembering reaching into his pocket and taking it out. From where she sits in the seat opposite him, Phyllis is gazing at him with a mixture of gentle reproach and sympathy in her eyes. Feeling caught out and chastised, he slips the case back into his coat without opening it, his hackles up. “And what of it? I’m a grown man, Miss Baxter.”

She offers him a disarming smile. Her hands are loosely crossed on top of her purse. “Of course you are. And you’re young and you’ve got your health -”

“Sure do.” Dr. Clarkson had confirmed as much at his yearly physical last month, so what was she moaning about?

“- but you have been smoking like a chimney this morning, Thomas, and I don’t want you to wake up one morning, years down the road, and discover you can’t climb a flight of stairs anymore without wheezing or having to stop to catch your breath.”

He rolls his eyes. “You sound like Daisy. Ever since I caught a common cold last winter she’s been on a crusade of her own to break me of the habit. You’d have thought I was dying of plague instead of coughing and sniffling a bit, from the way she fussed.”

“She cares about you.” Thomas snorts, and Phyllis fixes him with a look. “Believe it or not, she does. And you need to stop dillydallying and set a date for that visit to the farm she’s been badgering you about.”

“And I will soon enough, Miss Baxter. No need to keep reminding me.”

She concedes, having made her point, and both are silent for a bit, the only noise that of the train car rattling along the tracks. Thomas gazes out the window without really taking in the scenery passing them by. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen it before, anyway, although under different circumstances he may have enjoyed the fresh green hue of spring cloaking the trees.

After five minutes, he caves, takes out the cigarette case again and lights up before Phyllis can say anything about it. He meets her eyes defiantly as he sucks in his cheeks and feels his nerves settle. “Think what you will, Phyl,” he says with a shrug and a jerk of his head.

“I think you’re nervous,” she says with a soft smile of understanding. “As anyone in your shoes would be.”

He harrumphs but doesn’t bother denying the obvious. Tucked in his pocket, alongside his cigarette case, is the letter he received from Mrs. Ellis in answer to his own, with directions on how to reach the house from the York train station.

 _Dear Mr. Barrow,_ it says in a neat woman’s hand (not that he knows parts of the letter by heart, no, most definitely not), _barely had I received Richard’s note informing me of your intention to visit York or there arrived your delightful letter in the mail. It's difficult for me to properly describe how pleased I was to hear from you, and to learn of your offer of help. I hope I'll manage to be more articulate once we meet in person, but rest assured that I am grateful and will gladly receive you to tea on any day that suits you, so long as you send word ahead to confirm the date. (I usually keep something sweet hidden away just in case anyone were to drop by unexpectedly, but still - one doesn’t like to be caught unprepared.) And by all means, bring your friend along. I'm always here at the house alone at that time of day, and I would be glad of the company._

“Anyone, Miss Baxter?” he asks wearily. “Are you quite sure of that?”

“There are always the rare exceptions, but I’d say yes, most anyone.” She tilts her head empathetically. “It is no trivial thing you’re doing today.”

“Phyl, please, don’t you start with me about selflessness and all that nonsense -”

“You know very well that is not what I meant.” Just a tad stern this time, and she lets a few moments go by in silence. A rather pointed one, and he capitulates with a sigh.

“All right,” he says brusquely, “yes, I suppose I am nervous, for the reason you are so subtly implying.”

“And how are you feeling besides that?” Miss Baxter asks, and here they have to allow for a short break in the conversation while the conductor announces they’re just a few minutes out of _Yawwkkk, ladies and gentlemen - next stop, Yawwkkk!_

It has Thomas’s pulse spiking over 140. It is a good thing he brought her, he realises - if he were sitting here alone, he may just have taken the first train back to Downton immediately upon disembarking. “Like I’m going to jump off this bloody train any minute now, Miss Baxter, that’s how.”

She smiles. “You’ll be fine.” She says it like she truly believes it, too. When the train finally pulls into the station and slowly grinds to a halt, she snaps her purse closed and gets up. He follows, dragging his feet like his shoes have lead in them.

It is a walk of about twenty minutes from the train station to the Ellises’ house in one of the city’s better working class neighbourhoods, but the April weather is fine and the stroll soothes Thomas’s frayed nerves somewhat. The street is rather charming, well-kept terraced houses in red brick and the odd store - a small grocer, a cobbler’s workshop and a butcher. It confirms, in his mind, that for a working class family, the Ellises are relatively well off. They wouldn’t have been able to keep a second property in the country, however derelict it may be, for the past two years if that wasn’t the case.

“Number 8,” Phyllis says as she inspects the mailboxes, “here we are, this should be the place.”

They walk up to the front door, Phyllis one step behind Thomas. He rather wishes it were the other way around, but she seems determined for him to take the lead, which is probably fitting given that he initiated this visit during what must have been a fit of madness, but that doesn’t mean he feels at all confident about what he’s about to do. He rings the doorbell, and then they wait.

They wait, yet nothing in the house seems to stir, and Thomas exchanges a glance with Phyllis before taking out his watch to check the time. Could it be that he misremembered the time? But then, he did send advance warning of the train they’d be arriving on, he can’t possibly have made a mistake there. He is about to ring again when the door finally opens and he looks upon the face of Mrs. Ellis in person for the first time. Having only his memory of a few childhood pictures to work with, he’s tried to form a picture in his mind of the older woman she is now, but it comes as no surprise that he was wide off the mark. For some reason, he had imagined her to be small in stature and rather matronly, but the woman opening the door is surprisingly tall and slender, straight-spined, almost statuesque in posture. She has shoulder-length hair, neatly coiffed and dyed, and is elegantly dressed, even though the effect is spoiled somewhat by the fact that she’s come to the door wearing an apron that looks like it’s got blotches of batter and flour on it.

At first glance, he fails to see any immediate resemblance to Richard other than height - she can’t stand much shorter when side by side with her son - but then he notices her piercing blue gaze and feels suddenly short of breath a little.

Come to think of it, Mrs. Ellis seems a tad winded herself, a little red colouring her cheeks as she bids them welcome. “Oh, Mr. Barrow,” she flusters, “Miss Baxter, it’s a pleasure, please do come in, come in.” They file in and she closes the door, ushering them along into the parlour and inviting them to make themselves comfortable.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she adds, and before Thomas can get a word in edgewise, let alone offer her their courtesy gift - a sprout from the Crawleys’ garden had seemed fitting, as Richard had hinted in his letters at his Mum’s keenness for gardening - she’s darted off towards what must be the kitchen, leaving her guests standing in the parlour with their coats still on.

“Looks like you aren’t the only nervous one,” Phyllis says under her breath, a glint in her eye, and Thomas privately curses his lapse on the train. At the same time, he allows himself a moment to consider the wild possibility that anyone, let alone Richard’s Mum, could be nervous about meeting _him._

Not just wild - inconceivable.

He must have made some sort of face, for Phyllis chuckles. “Come, Mr. Barrow, get you out of that coat and hat and sit you down. I’ll see what I can do to help our hostess get tea ready.” Just then, there is a loud clang from the kitchen, followed by a muffled exclamation. The sudden noise startles them both.

“Can I help -” Thomas begins as he shrugs out of his coat, but Phyllis waves him off. “I _can_ carry a tray, Miss Baxter. I did little else as a footman.”

“Sit you down, Mr. Barrow,” she reiterates, and then she’s off with his coat and hat, leaving him no other choice but to take a seat and wait, balancing their gift for Mrs. Ellis on his knee. From the kitchen, distantly, float the two women’s voices, that of Mrs. Ellis initially in shrill protestation ( _“No dear, so very kind of you but I can manage, really”_ ) but Phyllis does have that calm, decisive way about her, and soon the tone changes to one of friendly conversation and even laughter.

It’s all a bit unconventional, Thomas muses, but he isn’t sorry for the chance to sit here by himself and acclimatise before the women return, taking in his surroundings. It is an inviting space, cosy and tastefully decorated, and Thomas allows himself to imagine Richard in this room, reclining in the chair opposite his - grinning, comfortable, at home. The picture in his mind forms easily, but after a moment or two he has to look away from the empty chair and take a breath while the image dissipates.

Then his wandering gaze falls upon a collection of framed pictures, carefully arranged on a dresser against one of the walls, and suddenly he is reminded of something Richard had said while they were at the farmhouse.

_"Family pictures - like my Mum has in her sitting room."_

He listens intently, blushing already at the thought of getting up to snoop - then again, if these were private pictures why display them in a room intended for reception and entertaining? - but the women are still busy in the kitchen. He waits a little longer, considering, but his curiosity prevails and he gets up. _Just a glance,_ he tells himself, but when he approaches the dresser there is such a sea of faces to look at that it is abundantly clear he’ll need more than a glance to take them all in.

The photograph leaping out at him first is, perhaps unsurprisingly, a studio portrait of Richard that can’t have been taken more than a few years ago. It is rather formal, as these portraits often are - Richard seated with his elbow resting on a table, straight-backed, gazing into the camera lens with an unsmiling expression, very much unlike the way Thomas was picturing him earlier, but it gives him a shock all the same. He has no photograph of Richard of his own, nor Richard one of him, such being too risky a token to exchange, now or in the future. It gives him a pang of sadness, and once again, he finds himself having to look away from this strange Richard he doesn’t know, who has a cool, artificial air about him, captured in an alien environment, surrounded by photographer’s props he has no real connection with. If he has to torture himself by picturing him, then he would much rather picture him as he was at the farmhouse - relaxed and at ease, whistling when performing even the most arduous tasks and not even realising he was doing it - even if it makes his heart ache.

As he casts his eye across the array of photographs, he cannot help but stand in awe of this altar of family love stretching back generations - parents and grandparents on both the Bell and Ellis sides, a wedding portrait featuring a young Mrs. Ellis and the as yet unseen Mr. Harold Ellis, Uncle Hugh and several more photographs of Richard at various ages, including one of him at about eight or nine, wearing a white tie costume with knickerbockers of all things, a big white bow tied around one arm and a book in one hand. It is another studio photograph, the name in the bottom corner that of a studio in York, and Richard’s expression in it can only be described as _pious_.

He is so bewildered by the picture that he completely forgets himself and startles when Mrs. Ellis comes in with a tray, followed by Miss Baxter with another. He practically jumps away from the dresser, embarrassed to be caught, but Mrs. Ellis doesn’t seem bothered.

“Oh, you can look at my collection, Mr. Barrow. I don’t mind in the slightest.” She places the tray with tea on the table and joins him, gesturing at the photographs. “We have to honour those we love, don’t you agree?”

He smiles politely. “Certainly I do.” He wants to ask about the picture of Richard in the monkey suit, but doesn’t find the courage. She must have caught him looking at it, however, for she picks it up and brushes off a bit of nonexistent dust.

“Richard on the day of his First Holy Communion,” she says fondly. “He was so proud, as you can probably tell.”

Thomas can indeed. For all the young lad’s solemnity, captured by the photographer’s camera, there’s a bit of peacockery mixed in there as well. It’s uncanny, how much it reminds Thomas of the grown man he knows.

Meanwhile, it occurs to him that Mrs. Ellis is gazing at him expectantly, almost eagerly. With a start, he realises she is waiting for him to speak. To give some sort of _reaction._

“His, erm, his faith has always been strong, then?” 

He hears the words slipping out of his mouth before his brain can even begin to consider the fact they may not be entirely appropriate. Christ, he is barely in the door five minutes and already he is bringing up highly personal topics like faith, a matter he knows next to nothing about besides. Mrs. Ellis just stares at him for a moment - not a moment, an infinity - and Thomas feels a pinprick of embarrassment at the back of his neck, right between his shoulders. Self-loathing rises in his throat like bile and makes him wish he could walk out this very minute without giving offense.

_Of course she doesn’t know what to say, what kind of a question is that, you idiot. Not very circumspect of you, to admit to knowing something so private._

The truth is, though… much as he hates himself for asking, he does want to hear her answer. After all, he is standing in the presence of the woman who arguably knows Richard better than anyone, who gave birth to him and bathed him and dried his tears when he skinned his knees and loved him all his life. And that must be why his tongue betrayed him just now - because he's only just beginning to realise how many things, how many stories she could share with him, and he wants to know everything, _everything_.

He blushes and mutters, “Sorry, ignore me, I shouldn’t… I’m being nosy.”

“Oh no, no, please, I assure you it’s no problem, it's just… ah, never mind. At any rate, yes, he… he's always seemed to find solace in it.”

He nods, unsure what to do when she hands him the framed picture, so he simply peruses it for a few moments before carefully placing it back among the others. The book Richard is holding must be the Holy Bible, he realises belatedly. Inwardly he braces himself; if Mrs. Ellis were to ask if he’s a man of faith himself, he’d have no idea how to respond.

Thankfully, he is spared the embarrassment.

“You couldn’t tell it from this picture, but he was dreadfully nervous that morning, poor bub,” Mrs. Ellis goes on to fondly recall. “He was so worried about getting the words wrong that he made me practise it with him over and over, up to ten minutes before we were due to make our appearance in church, and even on the way over he couldn’t stop muttering the words to himself. I told him, “Dickie, the Good Lord won't send the locusts if you stutter a little - it’s what’s in your heart that counts.” But when it came time, he did brilliantly - as I knew he would.”

Thomas smiles respectfully. Truth be told, he only has the barest of understandings of what exactly a First Holy Communion entails, but he isn’t about to admit to that under this roof. At the same time, he’s fairly sure his pulse just spiked at Mrs. Ellis referring to Richard as ‘Dickie’, and immediately berates himself for acting so damn _giddy_ about a common nickname.

Back in February, at the farmhouse, Richard had brought it up one time - _you never call me Dick,_ he’d said. At the time he’d been nonchalant, almost blasé, in asking the why of that fact, but having gained a somewhat better understanding of the man by now, and hearing the affection Mrs. Ellis poured into the name, Thomas wonders in hindsight whether Richard had been asking something altogether different.

What he emphatically does _not_ want to do, however, is to think about the circumstances of that particular conversation in front of Richard’s mother. Already he can feel himself starting to blush and fidget at the memory of everything they did at the house, the house that is in _her_ name _._

“When the young Mr. Ellis stayed at Downton last year, we thought him so kind and amiable,” pipes up Miss Baxter quietly. She’s joined them at the display of photographs, smiling at Mrs. Ellis. “We all liked him tremendously.”

Mrs. Ellis beams at her, and Thomas breathes a little more easily, grateful for the distraction provided by Phyl’s compliment. What she’s saying is the truth, besides, but it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to confirm it.

“Oh, yes, he’s a lovely boy. Come, let’s sit you down, both of you, and have a cup of tea.”

They do as she suggests and soon they are settled in, sipping tea and making idle conversation. Thomas is more than happy to let the two women take the lead on that while he tries to control his nerves, listening as Mrs. Ellis makes inquiries about Downton and the royal visit and Baxter recounts, in the most diplomatic terms possible, how they dealt with the tyranny of the Royal Household and Mr. Wilson in particular, but as it turns out, Mrs. Ellis is no fool - nor did he expect her to be.

“That is so odd,” she muses aloud, stirring her tea thoughtfully. “From the way Dickie tells it, the Royal Household has always struck me as a well-oiled machine, every minute detail planned out and scheduled to perfection. How could the Comptroller have made such a glaring error as to call all the footmen back to London when they weren’t even needed?”

“Well…” Miss Baxter begins after a brief hesitation and a glance in Thomas’s direction, and Thomas wishes he’d asked Richard in advance how much he’d told his Mum about all the treasonous activities that led up to His Majesty dining on Mrs. Patmore’s creations and being served by _Mr. Molesley_ of all people.

They are interrupted - saved, rather - by the doorbell being rung. Mrs. Ellis excuses herself and leaves the room to answer the door, returning less than a minute later muttering about a Mrs. Howard, a neighbour who apparently is too curious for her own good.

“I’ll bet you,” Mrs. Ellis says as he takes her seat again, “she saw that I have guests and came over to snoop. I am so sorry for the interruption, we shan’t be disturbed after this.”

“It’s no problem,” Miss Baxter assures her.

“Anyroad, where were we? Oh yes, you were telling me about the strange incident with the royal footmen.”

“Ah - yes…” As before, Miss Baxter glances at Thomas for support, and he coughs, hoping he’s judged this woman right.

“Well, to be entirely honest with you, Mrs. Ellis, the Comptroller had very little to do with it. Nothing, as a matter of fact. Rather, er... turns out Ri- Mr. Ellis is quite good at impersonations, and -”

He trails off, already regretting his candour, but when he looks up, he finds to his surprise that rather than looking shocked, Mrs. Ellis is smiling into her teacup. Miss Baxter, who’d stiffened slightly when he opened his mouth and truth started spilling out, visibly relaxes some.

“It wasn’t his idea,” she clarifies, as if to reassure Mrs. Ellis that she raised no pot stirrer or worse, traitor to the Crown. “He was merely sympathetic to our cause, and I don’t think he minded a chance to make Mr. Wilson look a bit foolish. A most unpleasant man, him.”

“Oh, there’s no need to explain, Miss Baxter,” Mrs. Ellis says, smiling openly now. “I know my son and his mischievous ways very well - he was always impersonating his teachers and getting into trouble over it when he was growing up, so none of this is terribly surprising. I also happen to know of this Mr. Wilson, although I have never met the gentleman in person - Dickie’s descriptions leave little to the imagination. So believe me when I say that I’m sure he deserved to be taken down a notch. I just hope none of you suffered any unpleasant consequences as a result.”

Thomas feels himself relaxing, and Miss Baxter replies with a chuckle, “I think it will be a while yet before Mr. Molesley recovers from what transpired in the dining room, but other than that, I reckon we all escaped remarkably unscathed. And Mr. Ellis truly was tremendously helpful in the execution of the scheme - if he were to return to Downton as a guest, he would be warmly received, as a friend. Isn’t that so, Mr. Barrow?”

“Oh - yes,” he blurts out, startled to be asked, but Mrs. Ellis’s beaming face tells him he couldn’t have given a better response. “Yes, we’d be delighted.”

“I’m sure he’d love to visit,” Mrs. Ellis says warmly. “My Dickie’s very loyal to his friends. Sadly, he doesn’t get to come home very often. He works so hard…” She looks contemplative for a moment, almost absent, and then gestures at the array of various pastries on the table. “Please, help yourselves.”

This part of the visit, at least, is going exactly as Richard predicted - _my Mum’ll have you sitting in her parlour stuffing your face with home-made pie before you know it,_ or words to that effect. Thomas waits for Phyllis to get her fingers on a bit of sponge cake before stretching out his hand towards the tray himself, hesitating in mid-air when he spots more of the shortbread he and Richard had had with their tea on their last morning at the farmhouse. The memory hits at a visceral level - he can still taste the zest of the ginger at the back of his tongue when he thinks about it, and the bittersweet tang of their imminent parting that’d permeated their every interaction that morning. Hanging over them like a cloud, the not knowing how long they would be parted for, except that it would not be a short time.

“Is that…”

“Ginger shortbread, my own special recipe.” She smiles tentatively. “I think… I think you may have had some before, Mr. Barrow? I gave some to Dickie when he was here in February to take to the cottage and share between the two of you. I hope he did?”

He nods and swallows, licking his lips. “He did, yeah. It was excellent.”

“Oh yes, it’s always been one of Dickie’s favourites. You go ahead and take some, dear. Take as much as you like. I can always make more. They’re really easy.”

He obeys and takes a piece to nibble on, dreading the memories the taste will inevitably dredge up, but to refuse now would seem impolite. “You are very kind, Madam. We are much obliged to you.”

“Oh, not at all, not at all. This house is always open to Dickie’s friends.” He glances up as she says it and catches her eye, his heart pounding at the brief contact. “And let’s not forget the reason why you are both here - you are doing us both such a favour by offering to trace the gentleman who knew my late brother. I know it would mean so much to Dickie especially if you were to succeed.”

“We very much hope to,” Miss Baxter says softly. She is sitting up right, back ramrod straight, but her face spells relaxation, her smile warm. “From what I understand, I believe you have a photograph to show us?”

“I have two. Although the first… I’m not sure…” She glances at Thomas, who understands her meaning and nods to indicate that it’s all right, Miss Baxter won’t take offense at the image. Mrs. Ellis brushes her knees and gets up, approaching a writing desk in the room and opening one of its small drawers to take out the photographs in question. When she returns, she gives both to Miss Baxter, who brings her face closer to study the small portrait of a young man in his late twenties, perhaps - a diamond-shaped face with dark eyes and dark hair. When she passes the picture to Thomas, he also spots what could be slight jug ears and a scar on his forehead - useful features that could aid them in their search.

He hears Phyllis letting out a soft gasp beside him. “Oh, Thomas, have you seen this?”

He glances over, and she shows him the other picture - of the two men smiling, embracing. It gives him a jolt, and he looks down quickly to conceal his visceral response. “I have, yeah.”

“That’s my brother, Hugh, on the left,” Mrs. Ellis explains, mostly for Miss Baxter’s benefit. “He passed away about eighteen months ago.”

“My condolences,” Miss Baxter says softly, with feeling. “He seems like a kind man. And very handsome, if I may be so forward.”

“You may, and naturally I thought so too,” Mrs. Ellis says proudly. “Growing up, I idolised him. So did my girlfriends, and he enjoyed the attention, that’s for sure. He was a charmer, a bit cocky in his youth, but he had a good sense of humour about things. We were always poking fun at each other - drove others a bit mad at times, I suspect.” She laughs softly, eyes shining at the memory. “I miss that. He was the person I grew up with, we shared the same memories, and now he’s no longer here. But I see so much of him in Dickie, and that’s a great comfort to me.”

“I can imagine so,” Miss Baxter says, still perusing the photo. “There is a more than passing resemblance there, isn’t there?”

“Oh, yes, Dickie’s so like his uncle, it’s quite uncanny. And they got on splendidly. When Hugh passed, we were all gutted, but Dickie especially. He was stuck in London at the time and it killed him, I think, not being able to visit and say goodbye. The ways of the Palace are too rigid to allow such a frivolous thing as a personal day to visit a dying relative.” A note of barely concealed disdain slips into her voice. “So believe me when I say that I won’t be shedding any tears over Mr. Wilson’s bruised ego.”

Miss Baxter passes Thomas the second photograph, perhaps forgetting for a moment that he has seen it already. Despite having no particular wish to see it again - as it, too, is linked to memories he would rather keep at arm’s length at this time - he takes it with a slightly shaking hand.

“Oh dear, will you just listen to me going on and on?” says Mrs. Ellis, now sporting a slight blush of embarrassment. “You both must think me such a rambling fool. Here, dear, let me.” She takes the teapot before Miss Baxter can so much as extend her hand and fills up her cup. Thomas’s, as well.

“Not at all, I assure you,” Phyllis replies, reaching for the milk. “After all, you’ve met the man we will be looking for, so any information you can give us about him is important.”

“I met him only the once,” Mrs. Ellis says, “so my knowledge is meager at best, but I will do what I can to help.” She glances at the photograph in Thomas’s hands, the one that’s going to go back into the drawer when they leave here, not to be seen by strange eyes. “I don’t know if Dickie told you - I took that photograph of them together, one afternoon many years ago, in my brother’s backyard. I had forgotten about it, until Dickie showed it to me in February. Seeing that photograph brought all memories of that afternoon back in an instant - I feel shivers down my spine again, just thinking of it. Quite the shock to my system, let me tell you. ”

Thomas gnashes his teeth. He has some vivid memories of his own, of Richard weeping into his shirt when he laid eyes on that photograph for the first time and realised that his beloved uncle, in whom he had recognised a kindred spirit, had in some ways been a stranger to him, and taken secrets to the grave with him that Richard would never get the chance to ask him about. Remembering Richard’s heartbreak in that moment awakens something inside of him, a protective anger he didn’t even know was there suddenly rising to the surface.

“Not as big a shock as it was to him, I don’t think,” he hears himself saying sharply, and a beat of silence follows this outburst. Yet he barges on, because once he opens his mouth and frustration starts spilling out he _can’t bloody stop._ “At least you knew the bloke existed. What I am struggling to understand is why neither of you ever told Richard that he did. Why you kept it such a sordid secret until he found out through a photograph. If you’d been there and seen his reaction…”

He manages to stop himself there, in the terrible knowledge that he’s overstepped the mark to an unforgivable extent, given the warm welcome they’ve been extended by this woman, but the sentiment behind his words is no less real because of it. Beside him, he can sense Phyllis holding her breath. She has been through moments like these with him before, unfortunately, and must be wondering why she still keeps giving him chances not to embarrass her in social situations.

_Well… so much for making a good first impression. Well done, you twat. Don’t expect Richard to want to have anything to do with you after insulting his dear old mum._

Mrs. Ellis, clearly taken aback by the chastising, draws herself up slightly. “One of the hardest lessons of parenthood, Mr. Barrow,” she says, “is that one can’t protect one’s child from all harm and hurt, however much one would like to. That lesson was hammered home to me again and again.”

She says it without a trace of rancour, but Thomas blinks and averts his gaze, remembering what Richard had told him about being his parents’ third-born but only surviving child, about his Mum visiting him daily at the convalescent home and begging the nurses not to leave him unattended for fear of what he might do to himself. It feels almost wrong to know all this, to sit here as a stranger and yet have such intimate knowledge of this family’s most private affairs.

She goes on, “My own reasons for never mentioning Mr. Shaw’s existence are twofold - having met him only once, I do not know, even now, how significant a role he played in my brother’s life, and I would not have thought it my place to tell Dickie if I did. That would have fallen to my brother, and as to his reasons for remaining quiet I can only guess. I loved him dearly, and any judgment society may have passed on him never had much relevance to me, but he did not share such private details even with me. As was within his right.”

Shamed by her gracious yet cutting response to his outburst, Thomas bows his head, the embers of righteous anger going cold inside of him and the all too familiar taste of regret settling at the back of his tongue, bitter in his mouth.

Yeah - he fucked up royally, didn’t he.

Miss Baxter, bless her, tries to mend fences. “I’m sure Mr. Barrow didn’t mean -”

“Oh no, I did mean it,” Thomas says, as Baxter turns desperate eyes on him, clearly exasperated. “Richard… Mr. Ellis, that is… he - he was upset when he found the photograph, and that made me upset on his behalf. I felt he could have been spared the shock, which is why I spoke harshly just now. I felt the secret should not have been kept from him.”

“All families keep secrets from one another, Mr. Barrow, and I’m sure ours is no different.” Mrs. Ellis gauges him for a second. “I am sorry Dickie was saddened by the photograph, but your argument is with my brother, not with me. And sadly he rarely talks back when I visit him these days.”

Thomas cringes at her biting remark. He can’t personally relate to the experience of losing a sibling, and even if he did it probably wouldn’t be on par with Mrs. Ellis’s loss, but then he remembers openly crying at the news of Lady’s Sybil’s death. Silly, probably, to liken that aristocratic young woman to a sibling, but for better or worse, it’s the best comparison he’s got. “I’m sorry, Madam,” he mutters, fingers rubbing idly at the fold in his trousers. “I’m an idiot who often speaks before thinking, and I do beg your forgiveness.”

She smiles, and for the first time, he is struck by how it transforms her face in much the same way as it does Richard’s, and he feels a pang deep within like a thousand daggers stabbing his heart all at once. Perhaps she sees some of this reflected on his face, because her expression softens further and she even reaches across to touch his knee, which is the very last thing he expected.

“There now, love,” she says, “it isn’t as bad as all that, surely? I may be an old woman but I’m quite tough, I assure you. No harm done. You spoke out of concern for Dickie, as his good friend, and as his mother I would be remiss not to appreciate that.”

He stares at her, stunned at her reaction, her kindness. Astonished, too, that she is touching him and doesn’t even seem to have thought twice about it, as if she were no stranger but his own mother.

Except… he can’t remember the last time his own mother did touch him like this. Not since he outgrew his knickerbockers, would be his guess. Not since it became undeniably apparent that he wasn’t like the other boys in the neighbourhood, in his school.

For the longest time, he’d felt entirely alone in being different like that - an undesirable, unmentionable. _Unlovable._

He is still grappling mentally for the right words to thank her when Phyllis, dauntless in her pursuit to get the chill out of the air, softly exclaims, “Oh, Thomas, aren’t we a pair of ill-mannered scatterbrains! We’ve completely forgotten to give Mrs. Ellis our present.”

Transparent though the tactic may be, Thomas can’t say he isn’t grateful for it. He reaches for the gift they put together with a little help from Mr. Brocket - a cutting from a gardenia he planted in memory of Lady Sybil, as the plant usually flowered around her birthday and she loved the rich fragrant scent. None of that’ll matter a fig to Mrs. Ellis, of course, but he’d felt good about the idea when it came to him and Phyllis’s smile of approval had been all the endorsement he needed.

“A humble offering from Downton,” he says as he hands the pot over. “We hope it’ll thrive in your garden.”

“Oh, how lovely.” She beams, genuinely lighting up with surprise and delight, and any trepidation he may have felt about how the gift would be received melts away. “And gardenia too, one of my favourites! Did Dickie clue you in about that?”

“No, Madam,” Thomas murmurs, and Phyllis volunteers, “It’s a plant of special significance at Downton… The idea was Mr. Barrow’s entirely.”

“Then we’ll attribute it to happy coincidence,” laughs Mrs. Ellis. “From His Lordship’s garden to my modest little yard, oh my - I’ll make sure to give it a place of honour and nurture it with all my skill, you can be sure of that.”

Her gratitude chafes, and he lifts his cup to his mouth with wooden fingers to give them something to do, to hide his face as he blushes. The tea is just a hair off scalding and he narrowly escapes burning his gullet as it goes down, almost coughing some of it back up his nose. But when he glances up, wondering what is wrong with him today that he can’t even sip his tea in a normal, civilised manner, it appears Mrs. Ellis is still entirely too taken with her gift to notice his clumsiness, let alone take offense at it.

 _These Ellises and their happy dispositions._ He catches himself smiling at the thought, and immediately berates himself for being such a bloody _sap._

But the thought has kindled a spark of warmth in him nonetheless, and he allows his gaze to linger for a second longer on Mrs. Ellis, taking in the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, her aged but still sure fingers gently caressing the tender leaves of the gardenia sprout. It isn’t much to look at at this stage, and certainly has a long way to go before it can begin to rival the plant it was cut from, but it seems Mrs. Ellis sees its potential. _A woman who thrives on taking care of others, on nurturing, seeing things grow healthy and strong,_ a part of his mind suggests unbidden, and while he isn’t quite sure where that thought came from, it helps him sit in his skin a little more comfortably.

Clearing his throat, he tentatively asks, “Could I - could I have more of that delicious shortbread, please?” 

Mrs. Ellis looks up, the smile that never seems to leave her face widening, and it’s as though Thomas’s earlier faux pas never happened. 

Such a far cry from what he is used to - normally people love to remind him of his fuckups at every turn. It started when he was a boy and never really stopped.

“But of course! No need to ask, Mr. Barrow, please. Have as much as you’d like. You too, dear.” She picks up the tray and thrusts it under their noses. “Don’t be shy. You won’t last long going from pub to pub if you have to pound the pavement on empty stomachs, I can promise you that.”


	6. Thomas (cont'd)

“I can’t believe how many pubs there are in bloody _York_ ,” Thomas sighs. “If I’d had any idea, I’d have swallowed my sarcastic tongue when Richard suggested we come here to immerse ourselves in the nightlife. To think that I almost laughed in his face while he swore up and down that York might surprise me.”

_And then… along came Chris Webster and his swaggering, narrow hips, his confident laugh and his bold hand groping Thomas’s ass none too subtly as they whirled about the room in a lively foxtrot._

Thomas flinches at the memory. He hasn’t thought of Chris Webster in a while, and that realisation makes him feel guilty. At the same time, he feels a pang in his chest wondering, not for the first time, if he’ll ever get the chance to dance with Richard like that - preferably without the abrupt ending and the sobering aftermath in a jail cell. He jerks his head and hopes Phyllis hasn’t noticed his distraction.

It’s been over five weeks since they sat in Mrs. Ellis’s parlour and they’ve been making the journey to York several times, even when they could only wrangle a couple hours away from Downton, to systematically tour the pubs and ask anyone willing to listen if they knew the man in the photograph. So far the results are disheartening, but they are still a long way from getting to the end of their list of addresses. A long, long way.

Phyllis smiles, perhaps remembering that conversation in the boot room, when Richard had fucking brought it up _again_ and she’d opened her mouth to tell Thomas he should just accept the invitation already. “You never told me where you ended up going that night.” He shrugs. “Come on. It’s been almost a year. You can tell me now, surely.”

“It could be ten years - fifty, for all I care,” he snarls. “It’s still none of your bloody business, so give it a rest.”

He regrets the disproportionate harshness of his tone as soon as the words leave his mouth. _You ungrateful bastard,_ he berates himself. _She’s the one who’s stuck by you through your worst. She’s a jailbird herself, for fuck’s sake - if anyone would give you a pass for spending a couple hours in the clink, it’s her, so why are you being so cagey about it?_

He glances at her askance, catching a glimpse of their reflections in a shop window. She appears small and fragile beside him - which she isn’t, she’s got iron inside her that most people fail to notice, but it compounds his guilt all the same.

He clears his throat inaudibly. “Sorry. I _don't_ want to talk about it, but I shouldn't speak to you like that. Not when you're doing all this with me, coming back here again and again to try and find a bloke you don’t know from Adam with only this old photograph to help us. I’m truly grateful, even if I have a shitty way of showing it.”

“Don’t mention it, Thomas.” She touches his arm briefly. She does that sometimes, giving him affectionate touches, and now that he’s used to it he doesn’t mind admitting that he’d miss it if she stopped doing it. “I've done this before, as you know, with Mr. Molesley, which taught me a lot about how to approach people in a situation like this. I can be useful to you.”

“You already are.”

“And what is more, I _want_ to be here. I was so pleased when you asked.” She smiles. “There may not be a man's life on the line this time, thank goodness, but this is for a good cause, too, and I’m happy to do my part for it.”

He makes a face. He is sorry Anna ever had to see the inside of a prison cell, he is, but the thought of Mr. Bates melodramatically eloping like a thief into the night and being practically sainted for it will never be less than hysterically funny to him. He is only sorry that the sanctimonious bastard came back to gloat about it. “No offense, Miss Baxter, but to me there is no competition between what we’re doing here and saving Long John Silver from the gallows.”

“Don't be unkind,” she berates him, but she's almost smiling as she says it. There are not many people who could chastise him this way and not have their head bitten off as a result, but he reckons she has earned the privilege to rap his knuckles on occasion. “You are better than that.”

He scoffs. “You may be the only one who thinks so.”

“That’s not true. You know that as well as I do.” She has no patience for his self-pitying remarks today, and he feels somewhat ashamed for slipping back into old habits. It is true that his staff have been remarkably disciplined lately and things downstairs have been running quite smoothly - people don’t exit a room when he enters it and he gets asked for advice, what is more: they listen when he answers and thank him for his time. Not just Albert, neither - _everyone_ , even Mr. Bates, seems to have at least accepted the fact that he knows what he’s about, even if he is no Mr. Carson and never will be.

It only took him twenty years to achieve it, but it seems he has at least some measure of respect. And irony of ironies, he didn’t even have to leave Downton in the end to get it.

“Mr. Molesley had a nervous look about him this morning,” he casually remarks. The newly ordained school teacher had dropped by the Abbey shortly after breakfast for no discernible reason other than to bum a cup of tea off Daisy and scurry around while they all went about their work. There were no classes to teach on a Saturday, and for a moment it’d felt like he would slip into his old livery again and start carrying trays for sheer boredom. If he had, it would’ve surprised no one. Even upstairs, they probably wouldn’t have batted an eye. “What’s he got a bee in his bonnet about this time?”

She throws him a look. “I won’t tell you if you can’t be nice.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was falling short on that front this time. Did you hear one unkind word pass my lips just now?”

“No, but you mock him at times, and I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not? He makes it so bloody easy.”

“Because I am asking you to,” she says softly, and damn it, she is really serious about this. “Joseph’s a good man. I wish you’d make an effort to like him, for my sake if not for his. Whether you like it or not, you are both important to me and nothing would make me happier than to see you bury whatever hard feelings there may be between you.”

“Such as the fact that he tried to convince you to stay away from me, telling you I wasn’t worth the trouble?” he says bitterly, and she flinches.

“He was wrong to say that, even if he meant well, and I told him that. He is sorry for it now, and has said so.”

“... Not to me, he hasn’t.”

“You shouldn’t fall him hard; if it weren’t for Joseph, I might not have -” She stops abruptly, in the middle of the sentence, and turns her face away from him as though studying the shop windows as they pass by.

“You might not have what?” When she doesn’t respond, he takes her arm, and stops her, right there on the pavement, so she has no choice but to look at him. “Phyl?”

He doesn’t use the nickname on purpose, but he can tell that it affects her. Gives her the nudge she needs to overcome whatever mental hurdle she just balked at.

“I might not have found you when I did,” she completes in a whisper, and he feels his innards twist into a knot. “It was something Joseph said that… gave me such a dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach that I left him standing right there and turned promptly around, running all the way back. I knew - in my heart I just _knew_ that my worst fear was about to become a reality.”

Inside him, something has turned to stone in the last few moments. So they are really doing this, they are _talking_ about this, right here in the middle of the street while people are passing them by left and right.

“Your worst fear,” he finally croaks, and she nods. “You never said.”

“And for the rest of my natural life, I’ll wish that I had.” She won’t meet his gaze now, eyes downcast as she seems to be making a study of his lapels. “Wondering if it would’ve made any difference.”

He lets go of her arm slowly and they stare at one another. Hers was the face he’d seen swimming into view first when he floated back into consciousness that day and realised he was tucked up in bed under a pile of blankets, hers the first voice telling him that it wasn’t his time yet. It hadn’t made him feel relief at the time, but he hasn’t found the courage yet to tell her that. She probably suspected it, at any rate - Dr. Clarkson plainly said he was not to be left alone until recidivism was no longer a concern. Meaning, they feared he might still take a razor and finish the job as soon as they turned their backs. Phyllis had scarcely slept that week, spending every waking moment by his side. She’d even slept in his room, curled up in the unoccupied bed.

“Well,” he chokes out, and his mouth twitches grimly, “we’ll never find out, will we?” 

The words feel like splinters in his throat, but at the same time something’s happening to him - sounds grow distant, his body stiffly resumes walking but it’s like watching someone else operate it, the pavement under his feet and the backdrop of shop fronts passing him by rather than vice versa. For a moment there is nothing at all inside him, and he can feel the panic rising on the wave of that realisation, the fear that he’s sliding back into _that place_ , that roaring, black void he fears more than anything. But it’s only for a second: he blinks, and the world around him seems to be flowing at the right speed again. 

He glances back, noticing that Phyllis is struggling a little to keep up with his longer strides. Looking at him with emotions in her eyes he doesn’t care to name right now, but saying nothing. 

“Chop chop, Miss Baxter. Time’s a-wastin’.”

They manage to check off a couple more pubs on their list, showing Johnnie’s picture at every one only to be told that no, he doesn’t look familiar and the name Johnnie Shaw doesn’t ring a bell either. Hungry and disappointed by the lack of leads, they eventually sit down at a pub called The Golden Ram’s Head to have lunch, a regrettable but unfortunately necessary delay. While Miss Baxter studies the menu, Thomas takes out the local newspaper he bought at the kiosk earlier and opens it to the obituaries as he’s taken to doing, terrified as he is that he’ll find Johnnie’s name among the recently deceased.

“You’re being morbid, Thomas,” Phyllis says, looking up from her menu to watch him scanning the page. “Besides, I’m sure Mrs. Ellis is keeping an eye out already so you don’t have to. And unlike you she gets the newspaper every day.”

“No harm in looking, is there?” He glowers at her, and she shrugs.

“Suit yourself, then. But I think you’re wasting your time.”

He spells the list of names all the way down to the bottom of the page, relieved there is no one named Shaw on it - on their previous outings, there were a Bernadette Shaw and a Peter Shawe who nearly gave him a heart attack, which further compounded Phyllis’s opinion that he should just leave those obituaries alone. “He’s alive,” she’d said on that occasion. “I’m sure of it.”

Thomas wishes he could be that confident himself. By Mrs. Ellis’s estimation, Johnnie would only be a few years older than her, which would place him in the 65-70 range. Not ancient by any means, but still - Uncle Hugh was that age when he passed away, so the possibility is there and Thomas, for one, wants to prepare himself for it.

And even if Johnnie is alive and well, as Phyllis insists, will he want to have anything to do with them? There’s every chance he got married at some point and had a family like so many men in their situation end up doing - two strangers showing up to remind him of a secret lover from a distant past may not be received as well as they hope.

In short, there are many conceivable ways this could all go to shit even if they do manage to find a trace of the man, which so far they have failed at. Disheartening, yes, not least because it’s a time-consuming process, chugging down to York every couple weeks and asking different people the same question over and over again, that sting of disappointment every time someone peruses the picture with a vacant expression and not the slightest spark of recognition. But it’d all be worth it if he could ring Richard up by the end of it and give him some good news - an address or telephone number, for instance, a lifeline to an untapped source of information about the uncle who died before Richard realised there were questions left unasked between them, conversations that needed to be had.

Finding the man in the photograph is really only the beginning, a first step. It’s what comes after that’s the clincher, and that’s where Phyllis can really prove her worth - because Thomas doesn’t trust himself to be able to find the right words when the time comes. There is too much riding on this on a personal level, and well, he hasn’t got the best record when it comes to achieving things he really really wants. And he wants this - to find this man and tell him Richard Ellis is looking for him - more ardently than he can remember wanting anything for a long time, Richard Ellis himself excluded.

They gobble up their lunch efficiently and in almost complete silence, Thomas still mulling over their exchange in the street earlier and the unsettling revelation that by some unlikely twist of fate, he may have _Molesley_ of all people to thank for his continued existence in the world of the living, a fact he is still learning to be grateful for. Feeling that gratitude doesn’t always come easily to him, but on good days, he _does_ feel it, and that in itself must be progress, right?

“You never answered my question about Molesley,” he finally says, breaking the silence. He keeps his voice deliberately light. “What was that all about this morning?”

She glances up at him, measuring, and gives a tentative smile. “He’s been asking questions about where we’re going on our half days.”

“Figures he’d get jealous sooner or later.”

He gets a glare for his trouble. “Don’t get clever. I think he feels excluded.”

“He can’t feel excluded if he was never included to begin with,” he points out. “Phyl, we agreed we’d tell no one at the house what we’re doing. It’s no one’s bloody business.”

“And I haven’t told him,” she says vehemently. “I wouldn’t be so careless. But I don’t like it - keeping secrets, telling lies. I’m not good at it, and I don’t know what to say when Joseph asks.”

“Tell him to come talk to me when he tries again,” Thomas says. “I have no trouble telling him where to stick his nosy -” He breaks off acutely, suddenly remembering what she’d said earlier about trying to be kinder. “I’ll fabricate a story,” he finishes after a moment.

“Thank you,” she says softly, and he knows it is as much about him trying to honour her request as it is about the fact that he’s offering to take the heat from Molesley. “I appreciate it.”

“Then repay me by choosing someone less annoying to marry.” She lets out an indignant squeak and he smirks, using the moment to light a cigarette. “He’s going to pop the question one of these days, Phyl, best be ready for it. We all know it’s going to happen, the only question is when.”

“You’re insufferable,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t duck her head or blush. Instead, she lifts her chin and looks him square in the eye. “And at any rate, I’m not marrying anyone until we’ve settled this. Where would I find the time to plan a wedding?”

He blows out and waves with his hand to disperse the smoke. “I’ve told you before, Phyl, you shouldn’t put your life on hold for my sake. I’ll be all right, even if you do become the village teacher’s wife. You don’t -”

_You don’t have to worry anymore that I’ll do anything desperate the minute you turn around._

He takes a deep breath and continues, “You don’t have to be a lady’s maid all your life.”

She smiles. “You say that like being a teacher’s wife is such a step up from a lady’s maid, and I know for a fact you don’t believe that. Now stop this silliness and finish smoking that so we can hit the pavement. Time’s a-wastin’, Mr. Barrow.”

They go up to the bar and Thomas pays for their lunch, generously tipping the landlord, a friendly sort of bloke who tried to be helpful earlier by suggesting they consult the York phone register for a John Shaw. Thomas’d smiled and thanked him for the tip, refraining from pointing out that he was hardly the first to suggest it and that calling every Shaw in the greater York area was a sure way of wasting money they didn’t have. Besides, they couldn’t be sure Johnnie was listed even if he did live in York, which was far from certain. Asking questions was free, even if a train ticket to York wasn’t - but when Richard dared suggest he reimburse them for the fare, Thomas’d told him off and insisted they could manage.

_Why wouldn’t you accept the offer?_ Phyllis’d asked when she heard about it, and he knew what was implied - Richard’s wages far exceeded theirs and he could easily afford the cost. When Thomas merely glared at her in response, Phyllis’d sighed. _You are far too proud for your own good, Thomas Barrow._

There is another patron sitting at the bar, a stout elderly man who eyes them with interest as he nurses a cup of coffee between fingers bearing the signs of a long life of hard labour. “You folks aren’t from ‘round these parts, are ya?” he asks Baxter in a conversational tone, and she confirms it. Thomas can tell the man is keen on a chat, one of those blokes who grasp at any straw to start a conversation, and he clears his throat subtly as he pockets his wallet. “I can always pick the new faces out in a crowd. What brings ya to York?”

Phyllis shoots Thomas a glance, gauging. They’ve been mostly talking to landlords so far, but the man must be of roughly the same age as Johnnie would be. Seeing as how their current modus operandi so far has proven unsuccessful, perhaps it is time they expanded and started taking age into account as a criterion. “We are looking for someone,” she says, reaching for the photograph and showing it to the man. “Someone who lived in York once upon a time and may still do. He’d be in his late sixties today. If you have any idea…?”

The man squints at the photograph for a couple seconds, then shrugs. “Doesn’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been coming here every day for years. Sorry, Madam, can’t help ya.”

“Thank you for your time,” Thomas starts saying, eager to get going, but Phyllis isn’t quite as quick to give up.

“His name is Shaw, John Shaw. But he could go by Johnnie among his friends. Do you know anyone by that name?”

“John Shaw, huh?” The man narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “Bloke by that name’s buried next to me wife, over on Goodramgate.”

Thomas’s stomach drops to the floor, and he mutters an expletive he normally wouldn’t articulate in a woman’s presence. If this is true, then it’ll be nothing less than his worst fear materialised. “Are you quite sure of that?” he asks, with a sinking feeling of dread settling under his ribs, and the man nods.

“Been going over there every day for years too, lad. ‘s My daily walk - to the church graveyard to see the wife and then a cuppa at the pub on my way back home. Every day without fail, for almost three years now. That’s how long me old lass’s been gone.”

To make matters worse, the man sniffles, his eyes watering even, and Thomas wishes more than anything he could in good conscience walk out right then and there. Thankfully, Phyllis is a bit more adept at dealing with displays of human emotion, and she touches the man’s shoulder sympathetically.

“We are so sorry for your loss,” she tells the man, who blows into a kerchief and nods gratefully. “I am sure you were married a long time.”

“Forty-six years.” The man wipes his nose and stuffs the kerchief back into his pocket. “She’s buried at Holy Trinity, where we were married. She’d have liked that.”

“Is it far?”

The man shakes his head. “For you young folks it’ll be three minutes at most. For an old man like me, it takes a bit longer. Come, I’ll walk with ya... show you where the grave is.”

The thought of the old man tagging along at an old man’s pace is pure torture, but even Thomas can see that the man only wants to make himself useful. He probably even welcomes the prospect of a little deviation from his daily routine, and to refuse him would be rude. So he bites his tongue, holding the door as Phyllis and the man file out, into the gentle May sunshine. When he joins them outside and dons his hat, Phyllis is already in the process of making introductions.

“... Phyllis Baxter and Mr. Thomas Barrow, of Downton. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hale.”

“Oh please, call me Giles. Everyone in the neighbourhood calls me that.”

“If you wish.” Phyllis smiles, and they set off, Thomas one step ahead of the other two. “Have you lived here long, Giles?”

“Oh, yes. We raised our three boys ‘ere, Rebecca and I. They’re all grown up now, a’course, and flown out… One lives nearby, in Leeds, one’s in Scotland and the third -”

Thomas tries to shut out the idle chatter behind him, having no particular desire to hear about their companion’s progeny. More than anything, he wishes he could rush ahead, to the graveyard, and establish for himself that the old man misremembered the name, as he surely must have. But he resists the urge, even if he has to continuously rein in the pace and length of his strides eating up the pavement to avoid getting too far ahead like a dog pulling on the leash. But at least he successfully avoids being engaged in the conversation behind him, for the most part, that is until Giles stops chattering about his boring life and instead starts poking his nose in _their_ business.

“Say, Madam, your friend’s a bit antsy, ain’t he? I hope this Shaw fella wasn’t a chum a’yours?”

“Oh, not to us personally, no,” Miss Baxter replies, “but we _were_ very much hoping to find him alive. He may be able to answer a few questions that matter a great deal to a friend of ours. And it’s ‘miss’, Giles. I’m not married.”

“Not married? Either of ya?” The concept seems to boggle the old man’s mind. “Well, then you both need to hurry on up. I was married forty-six years and loved every day. Highly recommend it.”

“It isn’t exactly an option for some of us,” Thomas bites out over his shoulder, and quickens his step to get out of earshot from the man’s inane babble, but not before he’s heard Phyllis explaining they both work in service, conveniently leaving out the fact that about half the Downton staff are married by now - to each other, no less.

She can always be relied upon to take the heat off him even when he doesn’t deserve it - bless her. But the fact of the matter is that even if he were to leave service, marriage wouldn’t be in the cards for him, and neither would a family. He’d never celebrate his first wedding anniversary, let alone his forty-sixth. If he were to be morbid for a second and wonder what would happen if he or Richard unexpectedly died tomorrow - well, the other wouldn’t even be considered a widower, would he? For all Richard’s talk of not wanting to die a bachelor like his uncle, that is exactly what they are, and always will be, in the eyes of the law and society.

He manages to drag himself out of the quicksand of these thoughts. It’s been less than a year, as Phyllis pointed out earlier. Not even one full year since they met and they’ve seen each other only once in all this time and Richard is two hundred miles away right now, a distance that often feels more impossible to cross than that between Earth and the bloody moon.

_So what the fuck are you doing, thinking of anniversaries and weddings?_

He takes a deep breath, willing his mind to settle on the problem currently at hand, which is already pretty stressful on its own. No need to wind himself up further with these… these pointless fancies.

“Are we there, yet?” he asks after a minute or so, congratulating himself on his patience. 

“Almost - it’s just around that corner, lad.” 

Finally he spots a rusted gate between two houses and they go through to find themselves standing in a secluded green oasis behind a medieval church that had not been visible from the street. It is remarkably quiet here - the noise of cars and carriages rattling over the cobblestones of the busy street they left behind does not filter through the thick walls encapsulating this garden. Tombstones jut out in a haphazard manner, some straight and well-tended, others crooked and overgrown with moss, bravely standing guard over someone’s long-forgotten grave. Giles leads them to a grave near the perimeter of the garden, in the shade of a blossoming hawthorn tree.

“Here’s me Rebecca’s last resting place,” the man mumbles, crossing himself. Phyllis respectfully follows his example. “Bless her good soul. And right over there is where -”

Having cast only the most cursory of glances at the dead woman’s grave, Thomas is already approaching the one next to it, his heart hammering in his throat as he reads the inscription.

_John Reginald Shaw  
_ _1860-1924_

The old man didn’t misremember, then. Thomas clenches his jaw as he reads the name over and over, willing it to change into something different, but the meticulously carved letters remain stubbornly in place. It is set in stone - there _is_ a John Shaw buried here and has been for four years.

_Four years._ John Reginald Shaw, whoever he may be, died four years ago at the age of sixty-four, which would make him sixty-eight today. So even the numbers fit, another nail in the coffin of Thomas’s quickly dwindling hope. The only thing keeping it alive, albeit barely, is the middle name - a reminder that this could be another John Shaw, and not the man they are looking for. After all, they don’t know Johnnie’s middle name, if he even has one.

Then again - no wife’s name on the tombstone. No children, no _Here lies my beloved husband, our loving father and grandfather._ The grave is bare - no flowers, candles or other tokens of care that prove the grave still attracts visitors. Thomas feels something heavy settle in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. It feels as if he has walked into Richard’s worst nightmare, and he wonders for a moment if throwing up in a churchyard would be considered blasphemous.

God… _Richard._

“There! See?” Giles says triumphantly. He seems almost relieved his memory didn’t fail him. “Been coming here every day for three years - I know every grave in this churchyard like the back of me gnarly old hand.”

Thomas balls his hand into a powerless fist and turns around abruptly, striding up to the two others. Phyllis looks startled for a moment - his face must be giving away some of his inner turmoil. The anger burning white-hot in the pit of his belly.

“Thomas,” she says hesitantly, “don’t lose hope. It could be a different -”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Hale,” Thomas says curtly, tipping his hat. “Come along, Miss Baxter. We’re done here.”

They re-enter the world of the living and Phyllis, too, bids Giles goodbye just outside the gate before catching up with Thomas at a trot. “Thomas, I get that you're upset, but was it absolutely necessary -”

“Don’t lecture me, Phyl,” he cuts her off in a growl, quickening his step, but she sticks by his side stubbornly, taking two steps for every one of his.

“What’s wrong?” she insists. “Thomas, we don’t know that this is the man we are looking for. Shaw is a common name. Don’t take it out on Mr. Hale, he was only trying to help.”

“And help he did.” Thomas kicks at a loose pebble lying in the road. It misses a passing car by a hair. “Aren’t we just so lucky to have our hopes crushed and stomped on by someone as helpful as that?”

“Well, _my_ hope isn’t crushed,” she declares, and slips her hand around his elbow, forcing him to adopt a calmer pace. “What’s all this really about? The look you had in your eyes in that graveyard… I haven’t seen you like this in ages.”

“I don’t want to _talk_ about it, Phyl,” he bites at her. After a brief hesitation, he adds in a slightly different tone, “You wouldn’t understand if I did.”

“I wish you’d try me.”

“And I wish you’d give it a rest.” He feels his cigarette case sitting in his pocket and itches to light one, but he needs two hands for that and Miss Baxter is holding one arm hostage. “God, I need a fucking drink,” he groans, “a stiff one. At least a dozen pubs today and I’m still stone cold sober, Phyl, is it any wonder I have a mood like vinegar?”

“Well, then we’ll have to remedy that.” She smiles and tugs at his arm, steering him across the street, where yet another pub looms. This little excursion to the cemetery has thrown their whole itinerary off, but Thomas supposes it doesn’t really matter. “We’ll get some liquid courage in you, you’ll feel better.”

Thomas grunts skeptically, but comes willingly. Liquor is not his vice, normally, but damn it, he needs to wash the taste of gall from his mouth with _something_ \- he may as well make it worth his while.

And so they end up sitting at one of the tables at the back of the pub, Thomas nursing a scotch between his fingers, Miss Baxter occasionally nipping at a tiny glass of sherry. Neither of them has spoken much since placing their orders, but Thomas’s whirring mind has quietened some, even if the image of that lonely grave is sure to haunt his thoughts for a long time to come.

Damn Richard for saying those things months ago - seeing that grave wouldn’t have affected Thomas half as much if he hadn’t planted those seeds in his mind. He tried to push them out, but like weeds, they have taken root all the same. His reaction back there in the churchyard proved that sufficiently.

“I should tell Richard,” he sighs, letting in the thought for the first time. Being the bearer of bad news is not an appealing prospect - it makes his heart ache to think how crushed he’ll be - but there’s nothing for it, is there? “I don’t know how I’m going to, but I should tell him.”

Slowly, Phyllis places her glass on the table. “Can’t you delay a bit, Thomas? At least until we’re sure. I was thinking… We could go see the church custodian and ask if John Reginald Shaw has any surviving relatives who visit the grave. If we can get in touch with them, we’ll have certainty. It needn’t be the man we’re looking for. In fact, I’m positive it isn’t.”

_The church custodian._ Thomas tosses back his drink and grimaces. “What is the point, Phyl? Let’s say it’s not Johnnie in that grave - we’ve asked in at least thirty pubs to date and no one’s been able to point us to any other John Shaws, alive or dead. You have to admit it all looks pretty bleak at the moment.”

“Mr. Molesley and I visited at least twice as many pubs before we found our man,” she states calmly, and he finds he’s got no response to that. She reaches across the table and touches his hand. “Thomas, the man I know doesn’t give up so easily.”

He laughs humourlessly. “The man you know is also quite good at fucking things up royally, and apparently this time is no exception.”

“What do you mean? It wouldn't be your fault if -”

“I _mean_ that I should have bloody left it alone.” He plays with his glass absently, lamenting its emptiness. “I should’ve stayed out of it, but no - I wanted to try and be a hero and find the bloke. For... for Richard. Instead, I’m going to have to be the one to take his hope away from him. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

“I have an inkling, yes. No one enjoys seeing someone they care about hurt or disappointed.”

_Well, thanks to me he’ll be both. Thomas fucking Barrow never does anything by halves._

Phyllis looks at him in a way that makes him wonder whether he’s actually said that last part out loud. He blushes, wishing for a second he’d never told her, never dragged her into this and made her an accessory to his failure. “But really, Thomas, I think it’s premature to give up based on -”

She falls abruptly silent when a figure appears next to their table - the potbellied, jovial landlord who took their orders earlier. “Refill, sir?” he suggests, presenting a bottle of whisky, and it’s tempting, but while he’s off hours at the moment, he’ll be overseeing dinner tonight. A small party admittedly, since the Talbots are away, but still -

“I probably sh-” He trails off when he sees Phyllis reaching for the photograph. She briefly raises her eyebrows at him as if to say, _may as well kill two birds with one stone while we're here,_ and before he can tell her not to, she’s pushed the picture across the table towards the man. ‘Giving up’ isn’t in this woman’s vocabulary.

“Do you know this man?” she bluntly asks, tapping the photograph with her finger. “He’d be in his late sixties today. Name’s John, or Johnnie. Last name Shaw.”

“Shaw, you said?” The landlord picks up the photograph and studies it. “We get a lot of customers coming through, miss, and they rarely introduce themselves by their full name. It’s not really a prerequisite for ordering a pint, y’know.”

She smiles patiently. “I’m sure you see a lot of people - it’s a busy street. Take your time, we’d rather you take a minute longer and be sure than remember something after we’ve left.”

The friendly landlord, clearly not wanting to disappoint them, complies with the request and peruses Johnnie’s image even more closely. Silence stretches on, and Thomas is starting to wish he’d accepted that refill. He covers his glass with his hand and tries to think of something other than his need to drink himself into a stupor.

“Yeah,” the landlord finally says slowly. “Name doesn’t ring a bell, I gotta say, but there’s something about this fella’s face looks familiar. Hold on, let me ask the wife.” He glances over his shoulder, at the woman cleaning glasses behind the counter. “Hey, Ellie, come here a second.” He grins at Thomas and Phyllis. “The missus has always been good at remembering faces. I’ll bet ya she can help.”

Phyllis smiles politely, and nods at the woman as she walks towards them, wiping her hands on her apron. She is as petite as her husband is massive - the physical contrast is striking. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back in a messy braid, giving her a girlish appearance. And the way she takes advantage of the short trip to pick up a couple glasses and wipe down some tables reminds Thomas of a restless bee, or a hummingbird, flitting from flower to flower.

“What is it, Paul?”

“This bloke right here look familiar to you?” He gives her the photograph. “There’s something about ‘im, but I can’t put the finger on it.”

She has barely glanced at the picture for two seconds when she exclaims, “Why, but this is Jack! Jack Shaw! Oh, he's _young_ here, but I'd recognise those ears anywhere.”

Thomas and Phyllis exchange a baffled glance. His ears are without a doubt Johnnie’s most distinguishing feature, but surely it can’t be…?

“Told you she was good,” the landlord says with a proud tilt of his chubby chin as he hands the photograph back. “She’s got quite a knack for this, Ellie does.”

“You know Jack, Paul,” she says accusingly. And to Thomas and Phyllis, she adds, “He took photographs at our grandson’s Timmy’s baptism a couple years ago, and we invited him to the pub after for a pint. Lovely chap, if not a bit quiet, but we chatted for a bit. Very good pictures they were, too.”

Thomas still can’t believe it - he refuses to let himself, clinging to skepticism for self-preservation. “The man we are looking for goes by Johnnie.”

“Might be he did thirty years ago. All I know is that he introduced himself as Jack. People change as they get older, lad - a different name means nothing.”

Phyllis is staring at Thomas with wide eyes, colour in her cheeks. Her hopes are firmly up, he can see that, but he isn’t quite ready to join her in her optimism just yet. Even if the coincidences are stacking up, that image of the neglected grave still sits firmly in his mind, refusing to be discarded. _A couple years ago_ , those had been her words. With hammering heart, he asks, “Would that… would that be the John Reginald Shaw whose grave we just saw?”

She laughs. “Blimey, I couldn’t tell you his middle name - I don’t know him as well as all that. But I can tell you one thing - Jack was most definitely alive the last time he came in here for a cold one, and that was two weeks ago at most.”


	7. Thomas (cont'd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everone! Hope you enjoy this update <3 I know Thomas and Richard are separated right now and it's sad, but Essential To The Plot and I gotta say, I'm kinda enjoying following them on their separate journeys for now, interacting with various different people. In this chapter, we finally meet the elusive Johnnie.

“You've been taking quite a bit of personal time lately, haven't you, Barrow?”

 _This again._ Thomas grits his teeth, although he is fairly confident he looks impassive on the outside - he would’t have gotten very far in service if he hadn’t learned quickly to hide his true feelings when dealing with those upstairs, and honed the skill until it became more second nature than a mere trick. He stands rigid before the Lady Mary, the letter tray perfectly balanced on his right hand, the left curled up behind his back. The impeccable image of a butler.

“If you feel I have been slipping in my duties, milady...”

_… feel free to dismiss me. We both know it wouldn’t be the first time the thought crossed your narrow aristocratic mind._

He takes a breath and leaves the sentence unfinished. Still, his tone must have given away _something_ \- even an inscrutable poker face can’t always save him when his mouth gets him into trouble. He holds his chin up slightly and meets her gaze without flinching, unafraid. The lofty Lady Mary and her sharp tongue don’t scare him, and never have. She isn’t so lofty anymore, anyway - marrying a car dealership owner has taken her down a notch or two, and long overdue it was too.

“Careful, Barrow,” she says slowly. “I may have made a poor decision last summer and acted a bit mad, but that doesn’t give you the right to speak to me like that.”

There is no real venom in her words, however - the cat’s claws aren’t out. In fact, she seems tired. When Thomas entered the library earlier, he’d caught part of a conversation between her and Lord Grantham, although they’d quickly cut off when they heard his footfalls, which means that whatever they were so heatedly discussing is something even the servants can’t know about, and _that_ means it’s in all likelihood something that would cause unrest downstairs.

Thomas has always made it his business to sniff out secrets, especially those of the potentially explosive kind, and he hasn’t lost the impulse, that need to know. Especially if yet more downsizing is at hand, more layoffs coming down the pipe, he’d prefer to know about it sooner rather than later. He’s going to have to watch the incoming post a little more closely, and have a smoke break with Pickett, the chauffeur.

He gives a stiff little bow. “Forgive me, milady. Yes, I have been taking some hours here and there, to take care of personal affairs, but only when work was slow enough that I could be spared.”

“Personal affairs involving Miss Baxter,” Lady Mary suggests, and he sways back on the balls of his feet, praying for this torture to end.

“Yes, milady.”

“Are either of you ill?” He nearly keels over in shock at the personal nature of the question, but she doesn’t blink at the asking. “Mind you, Barrow, I’m not asking for myself, but for Master George. He’s terribly clever, like his late Papa, and a very sensitive young boy - he has noticed your preoccupation and he’s worried, he’s said so to me.”

 _Such a cunning woman, to bring up the boy._ He feels himself faltering and curses himself for being so bloody _weak._

“Oh, no, we're both in excellent health, milady, thank you for your concern. Please reassure Master George for me.” He weathers her piercing dark stare with a smile, in hopes of atoning for his insolence earlier - because contrary to appearances, he isn’t looking to be sacked - but she only raises an eyebrow in response. He clears his throat. “As I said, it's a personal matter, but I should sort it out in the next few days - if you’d be so kind as to grant me a half day this next Saturday.”

She sighs and looks down at her hands, turning the as yet unopened envelope around in her fingers before picking up the silver letter opener and slicing it delicately along the edge. “Take the half day, Barrow. And please, stop acting like you're on trial or at the war front. I’m neither a judge nor a general.”

“Thank you, milady.” He glances at the door through which Lord Grantham disappeared in a huff earlier, muttering to himself or Teo, it wasn’t clear.

“Was there anything else?” Lady Mary taps the letter opener on the desk, clearly impatient for him to be gone and be left to her correspondence.

“No, milady. Only - Lord Grantham seemed a bit… agitated, earlier. Do you think he might need anything?”

She quirks a perfectly groomed eyebrow and actually smiles, albeit faintly. “Doing a little snooping of your own, Barrow? I would have thought you were above that now, as butler.”

He ventures a smile in return. “A leopard cannot change its spots, milady.”

“Alas, I think that is true to some extent.” She gives a little wave of her slender hand. “Thank you, Barrow, that’ll be all.”

He takes his leave, spending a few minutes looking for Mr. Pickett - whom Lord Grantham had hired solely for his sedate personality, having had his fill of revolutionary firebrands for chauffeurs - but eventually taking a smoke break by himself. He then heads down into the wine cellar to pick out the wine for tonight’s dinner and takes it up to his pantry for decanting. In the hallway, he crosses paths with Miss Baxter, who is hurrying by with one of Her Ladyship’s dresses over her arm.

“It’s arranged on my end,” he tells her, and she gives a conspiratorial, slightly nervous nod.

“I’m going up to Her Ladyship now. I’ll come meet you after.”

“I’ll be in my pantry with this.” He lifts the dusty bottle. “Decanting, not partaking, mind you.”

Funny - well, not funny, perhaps, but interesting - how he still feels the need to justify himself for doing his work as if he were still a thieving footman. Must be something about the almost resigned way the Lady Mary had pronounced that _“Alas”_ , maybe. It had made something unpleasant flutter in his chest, just for a moment.

He prepares his desk for the task ahead and gets as far as opening the bottle, but once he sits down, the Lady Mary’s words still ringing around the chambers of his mind, he finds himself reaching into his jacket to take out Richard’s latest letter - he’s taken to carrying one on his person at all times, because there is a comfort in having something Richard touched and poured pieces of himself into close to him - in hopes that it will ease the tightness in his chest. Used to be the fob was enough to do the trick, but it seems the more... attached he gets, the more reminders of Richard he needs.

_Dear Thomas,_

_I know I mailed a letter to you only this morning, but I had to follow up and take away any wrong impressions you may have garnered from it. I was in a black mood following a draining conversation with Miss Lawton and should not have put pen to paper before the cloud lifted, which it did soon enough. I certainly did not mean to imply that being back in London after Windsor was the cause for my choler, and I can only hope that I didn’t make you worry with that remark. Rest assured that I am enjoying my almost daily lunch walks around St. James’s and the blessings of springtime. Just yesterday, I took the trouble of walking all the way to Duck Island and sat there for a while to observe the activity among the waterfowl. I think I will be going that way more often now, and imagine you to be sitting there with me, although I’m not sure you’d find the view as engaging as I do._

Just as he did the first time he read it, Thomas smiles here as he reflects on how only Richard could so openly admit to being fascinated by the meaningless doings of, what, geese and ducks? Maybe the odd swan? He would have expected nothing less from a man who’d seemed positively enamoured of a chicken.

At the same time, he remembers finding the start of this letter almost more alarming than the one that preceded it, although he can’t quite put the finger on why Richard admitting to a tiff with Miss Lawton would be at all unsettling. He’d never made it a secret that he couldn’t stand the woman.

_So please, I’d appreciate it if you took this morning’s letter with the proverbial grain of salt, with the exception of the part where I paraphrased my Mum’s letter in which she heaped praise on both you and Miss Baxter, as that was a factual representation of her words to me. She enjoyed the visit tremendously and simply can’t stop saying how very taken she was by the gift of the gardenia, and how very thoughtful it was of you to choose something so personable. I was truly thrilled, yet not surprised, to receive her glowing letter, and read her words with pride. Good friends are one of the few real comforts in this world, and I am so glad to call you mine._

_Speaking of friends, I received a letter from Theo the other day. This fact in itself doesn’t warrant a mention, per se, only he wrote to tell me he’s going to be in London for business and plans to swing by Westminster to say hello. Here’s hoping I can slip the chain for a couple hours to meet him for a drink or two. I haven’t seen him in so long._

_I will end this letter now, and get this posted in a hurry so you won’t have to mull over this morning’s letter - which I would tear up, if I could - for too long. Please write soon to put my mind to rest on that score, and let me know how you and Miss Baxter have been faring on your shared Yorkish adventures. I so wish I could be of any use to you._

_As always affectionately yours,  
R. _ _Ellis_

Thomas sits for a while longer with the letter in his hands, rereading certain passages until he could close his eyes and recite them to himself by heart. Yes, he feels like he can properly breathe again, but at the same time, Richard’s parting words leave him feeling guilty for staying silent about the lead they picked up the other week, traces of a man going by Jack Shaw who at the very least has ears similar to Johnnie’s. The landlord’s wife had made good on her promise and written after a few days to give them the man’s contact information, given to her by her daughter, who had employed his services as a photographer a few years earlier. The address was that of a photo studio in Haxby, and luckily for them, it included a phone number.

It’s been difficult, not mentioning all this to Richard in his letters, but Thomas didn’t make that decision on a whim. He wants to be absolutely certain this Jack Shaw is the man they seek before getting Richard’s hopes up - and most of the time he _does_ manage to convince himself he’s doing the right thing, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t moments when a part of him accuses him that he can justify himself all he wants, the bottom line is that he’s nothing but a treacherous bastard who just can’t help deceiving others.

Well… he can only pray that Richard will be more forgiving than the voices inside his head, when he eventually learns the truth.

With a sigh, he gets to decanting the wine, a tedious, almost hypnotic task Mr. Carson used to perform with near-religious zeal and delicacy. Thomas tends to struggle with it a bit more and often finds his mind wandering, his attention slipping. Today especially he is feeling too ornery to sit down for such a monotonous activity, his thoughts rushing ahead to the phone call they hope to make later, provided Miss Baxter finds the Countess in a generous mood.

About ten minutes in, with a quarter of the bottle still to go, there is a soft knock on his door. “Enter,” he says, without looking up, and in slips Miss Baxter, quiet as a mouse. “We’re all set,” she says as she closes the door behind her. “Her Ladyship was most kind. What’re you smiling about?”

“I was remembering when Mr. Carson taught me how to decant,” he quickly lies, because while he _was_ thinking of that a while back, it is not the cause of the smile she mentioned. “The way he waxed poetic about the properties of each wine, you’d have thought he missed his calling as a sommelier.”

“Smiling about a memory involving Mr. Carson, Mr. Barrow?” She smiles. “My, I wouldn’t have thought you capable.”

 _Absence makes the heart grow fonder._ He congratulates himself on swallowing the remark at the last second, knowing she won’t find it amusing. “I’m softer at heart than any of you realise, Miss Baxter.”

“I know,” she says simply. “Come on - what were you really thinking about? I do so like seeing you smile.”

 _None of your bloody business._ He swallows that too.

“Decanting got me to thinking… I was in my pantry doing wine inventory, that first night when I still thought I was going to be the one facing off with Mr. Wilson. It was late - I think I was the only one still up - and Richard came downstairs.” _With unkempt, messy hair. Wearing a damn dressing gown that left his neck bare._ “We talked, me sitting right here, him standing in the doorway, sipping milk he hadn’t even bothered to warm up. It… it was quite lovely, actually.”

She seems surprised that he just shared such a personal memory. Truth be told, he has surprised himself by doing so. But it feels good, if not equally as terrifying, to bare himself in some small way. To give up a little piece of the story, the story of him and Richard. _Their_ story.

Thankfully, she doesn’t waste too many words on what he just did. “That’s… lovely, Thomas. Just lovely. I’m glad you told me.”

He gives a curt, almost brusque nod and sits back in his chair. The rest of the bottle can wait for them to tend to more pressing matters.

“Do you have the number?”

“Have it right here.” He opens one of his desk drawers and reaches inside, withdrawing a note with the phone number Ellie sent them. He hands it over to Phyllis.

“What time shall I say…?”

“Not too early in the day,” he replies. “We have somewhere else to go first.”

She raises her eyebrows at him, but he shrugs - he’ll explain later. She picks up the receiver and Thomas listens as she speaks to the operator. “Haxby, please.” She proceeds to give the number and waits, turning to face Thomas, who can feel his heart suddenly pounding and is glad he decided to delegate this particular task to Phyllis. More chance of success this way, he reckons. If it were him, he’d fuck it up somehow, he’s sure of it, and there is too much riding on this. No need to take undue risks before it’s absolutely necessary - he’ll be nervous enough come Saturday, when it really counts.

It seems to take longer to establish a connection than it ought to, at least to Thomas it does, but just as he’s about to give up hope, Miss Baxter’s eyes grow slightly wider and she gesticulates at him to indicate the receiver was just picked up on the other end.

“Good morning,” she titters, as he looks on and listens intently, “is this… am I speaking to Mr. Shaw, Jack Shaw? I am?” Her face lights up, and Thomas lets out a small breath, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “Good morning, Mr. Shaw. I got your number from a friend, who once employed your services as a photographer and recommended your studio. I was wondering… would it be possible for me and my friend - another friend - to set an appointment for this next Saturday? We’d like to have our portraits taken… oh, yes, I’ll stay on the line.”

She covers the mouthpiece with one hand. “He’s checking,” she whispers, as if that wasn’t obvious, but he forgoes the snide comment he could make and just nods, drumming his fingers on his desk restlessly. If Jack Shaw were to come back with a ‘no’ for the Saturday, they’d both have to go crawling back to their employers.

“Yes, I’m still here,” she says, removing her hand. “Oh, you can? Splendid. Two o’clock?” Her gaze flicks back to Thomas, who nods. “Yes, that’d be perfect for us, thank you very kindly. How can we best reach your studio by public transport? Yes, I have pen and paper right here -”

Thomas has heard enough. Barely paying attention to the rest of the conversation, he takes out pen and paper of his own and starts composing a letter.

 _Downton Abbey  
_ _22 May 1928_

_Dear Mrs. Ellis..._

*

“This is silly, Thomas,” says Miss Baxter, breaking a silence that’s been awkwardly building for the past few minutes. “Let’s just cross the street and go in, we’re only ten minutes early.”

They’re standing on the pavement of an unassuming street in the parish of Haxby, just outside of York. It’s a place Thomas never considered giving up a half day for, and that alone would be enough reason to hope they didn’t come down here chasing a false lead. From where they stand, taking shelter from the rain under the awning of a bakery, they can see the photo studio with the name J. SHAW in bold letters on the display window, with samples of the photographer’s work within. A sign above the door says, _portraiture & event photography. _

“It looks closed,” Thomas says, trying to tamp down the disquieting feeling that something is wrong. “Are you sure you were clear enough on the telephone about it being _this_ Saturday?”

“You were there when I made the call,” she says, almost miffed. “If I left any room for misinterpretation, you would know.”

“I only heard one half of the conversation.” Thomas huffs when Phyllis nudges him in the ribs. “Why’d you -”

“You’re being defeatist.”

“I’m preparing myself for disappointment,” he corrects her. “Wisest thing to do under the circumstances. What if he won’t talk to us, Phyl? It’s been over thirty years, for God’s sake. Sometimes people don’t want to rehash old history. If it even is Johnnie…”

“If it isn’t, I’m sure we’ll be back in York in a few weeks’ time to quiz landlords,” she says, refusing to be swayed by his pessimism. “Either way, we’re here, we came all this way. We’re not going to find out anything standing here debating til Kingdom come. If anything, we’ll be late for our appointment and that’ll start us off on the wrong foot for sure.”

They finally cross the street, pressed close together under the umbrella Thomas is holding up, like a married couple almost. It’s a thought Thomas may have smiled about if he were any less nervous.

They stop in front of the display window - that is to say, Thomas does, and Phyllis has no choice but to follow his example as he peruses the various framed photographs portraying weddings, baptisms, a First Holy Communion or two. There are several portraits that can only be described as glamour shots - beautiful young ladies made up and dressed in their finest, several men, too, handsome specimens with the chiseled jawlines and sultry eyes of silent movie stars.

“Come on, Thomas,” Phyllis urges impatiently, “you’re stalling.”

Thomas doesn’t move, his gaze drawn to a studio portrait of a man with an oddly familiar face that jumps out at him for some reason, giving him a jolt of recognition. The photograph is signed in the bottom right corner. “Phyl, isn’t that -”

“Oh,” she softly exclaims, with a little squeal of surprise, “yes, it is! Rudolph Valentino. Did he photograph _Rudolph Valentino_?”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” They both lean in to study the image of the Italian-American heartthrob of silent cinema who tragically died a few years prior, and more specifically, to the personalised autograph in the bottom corner.

 _To Jack,_ Thomas reads, almost pressing his nose to the glass to make out the words, _Hollywood will miss you. Rudolph Valentino._

“I see you’re admiring one of my prized creations,” suddenly says a voice behind them, and Thomas almost jumps out of his skin, wheeling around to face the speaker - an older man of slight, almost pixieish stature, well groomed and sharply dressed. From under the brim of his hat, two dark, glittering eyes size the two of them up. He leans slightly on a cane, but does not appear bent or infirm.

“We… we were,” Thomas stammers, wondering why he’s asking so _guilty_ when all he was doing was looking at a window display - it’s what they’re there for, for fuck’s sake. “Sir, are you -”

“Jack Shaw, photographer and owner of the eponymous studio behind you. At your service.” He tips his hat, and Thomas does likewise. “Was it you I spoke to on the telephone, Miss… Baxter? The two o’clock appointment?”

She nods. “It is, and this is my friend, Mr. Barrow. Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Shaw. When we walked up from the bus stop, we feared the shop might be closed - it was so dark inside.”

“I closed the shop for lunch,” he says. “I live five minutes from here. But I rarely make full days. I’m of that age that people start thinking about retiring, Miss Baxter, but the tedium would kill me within a month. I work because I want to.” He lifts his cane and points it at the door. “Shall we go in?”

It occurs to Thomas that Mr. Shaw does not carry an umbrella, and even though it isn’t raining very hard, the shoulders of his light jacket are looking quite drenched. He nods, and they follow as Mr. Shaw precedes them, opening the door with his key and entering the shop. The faint smell of chemicals hits Thomas’s nostrils.

“You’ll forgive me the vanity of putting the signed Valentino front and center,” Mr. Shaw says as he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up along with his hat. The cane he deposits in the umbrella stand, confirming that it’s just a fop’s accessory, not an old man’s aid. “As I said, I am quite fond of it, and it’s good advertising. I get quite a few clients off of that piece alone.”

“You met him, then?” Phyllis asks incredulously as she and Thomas, too, hang up their coats. “Valentino?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Shaw says almost offhandedly. “Spent quite a few years overseas, snapping pictures of the darlings of cinema. I have quite a few in my collection and sometimes I have them on rotation in the display window, but nothing draws clients to my door like Valentino. Please, go on through.”

“You worked in Hollywood,” Thomas says slowly, “you worked in Hollywood and you gave that up to come _here_?”

Mr. Shaw turns around. Without the hat, it’s easier to see the shape of his face, the way his ears stand out from his head, and Thomas feels suddenly lightheaded.

“Yes, and I’ll thank you to temper your judgment, young man,” he says, albeit not with rancour. “I’ll have you know I was born in Haxby, and it’s not all gold that glitters in Hollywood. I got tired, and found myself longing for bonny old England, the only place I want to lay my bones when time comes. Shall I make us some tea?”

Before either of them can accept or refuse, he’s disappeared through a door, leaving them standing where they are.

“Just make yourselves comfortable,” he calls from within what must be some sort of kitchen area, but they don’t really see a place to do so. “Where are you both from?”

Thomas and Phyllis exchange a glance. _Daft,_ Thomas mouths, but Phyllis shakes her head.

“From… from Downton, presently.”

“Downton? That’s quite a ways away, isn’t it?” He reappears in the doorway, once again sizing them up attentively. “Don’t they have photo studios in Thirsk, or Ripon?”

“Oh, they do,” Phyllis says, attempting nonchalance and utterly failing. “But like I said, you were recommended to me by a friend, and -”

“Indeed, very flattering,” he says slowly, caressing his beard thoughtfully. “Might I ask who?”

“My - my friend Ellie,” Phyllis replies, with only the smallest of stutters. “She and her husband Paul own a pub in York. You were the photographer at their grandson’s baptism a few years ago?”

It is an impressive feat of improvisation on her part, and Thomas holds his breath as Mr. Shaw ponders her answer, still stroking his chin.

“That is possible,” he finally concedes. “I attend a lot of baptisms, I can’t remember them all. But you’re not here for a baptism today, but to have your portraits taken, correct?” Phyllis nods. “Well then, shall we discuss the options and my rates? I realised you never asked about them on the telephone.”

“That’d be fine,” Phyllis says, but Thomas is gritting his teeth. This is all taking too long.

“Perhaps you can clear something up for us, first,” he cuts in, taking the proverbial bull by the horns. “Did you use to go by the name Johnnie when you were younger?”

Something, a shadow, passes over Mr. Shaw’s face. It is gone in a second, taking with it the twinkle in his eye. “No one’s called me that in years, lad. But what’s it to you, if I may ask?”

“Is this you?” Thomas asks, breezing past the question, and he produces the headshot they’ve been using during their search. The old man pales as he takes it, staring at the image for a few seconds.

“How did you get this?” he asks sharply, raising narrowed eyes up at Thomas, who feels a surge of relief so strong it almost brings him to his knees. It is true then - Phyllis was right. The John Shaw in that lonely grave was another, the real one is alive and well and standing right in front of them.

“Name Elizabeth Ellis mean anything to you?” he asks, feeling anger spiking through his gut at the blank stare he gets in response. “I see it doesn’t.”

“I’m an old man, Mr. Barrow. I don’t have the same memory for names I once did. I don’t know who this Mrs. Ellis is or why she would possess a photograph of me -”

“Her maiden name is Bell,” Thomas cuts in. “Maybe that’ll trigger your memory.”

As soon as he drops the name, he can see the shutters coming down even more, and that above anything else tells him he’s on the right track. Mr. Shaw moves away from them, retreating behind the counter and starting to rearrange the few objects cluttering it - a pen, a few sheets of paper, and some other things Thomas doesn’t take the time to identify.

“I can’t say it does,” he mutters, not even looking up, and it’s such an obvious, feeble _lie_ that Thomas almost feels insulted. 

“Thomas, maybe this isn’t…” Phyllis starts beside him, but he silences her with a look and takes a step closer to the counter. It isn’t that he blames the old man for being guarded - he would be too - but damn it, the clock is ticking - he doesn’t have the time to keep going about this with subtlety and tact.

“Well, she remembers you.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws the second picture, slapping it onto the counter separating them. He is pretty sure he hears Phyllis softly gasping behind him, but this is exactly why they called at Mrs. Ellis’s house earlier today - because he’d had a feeling that he would need the other photograph. “She remembers taking this with your camera more than thirty years ago. That’s you as well, isn’t it? Next to Hugh Bell, her brother. You knew him.”

There is a resounding silence so abrupt that the very air seems to be vibrating with it. Mr. Shaw stares at the photograph with a look of shock, his hand coming up as if to reach for it but withdrawing again.

“Who are you?” he asks Thomas, voice trembling. He looks badly shaken, and Thomas purses his lips, regret stabbing at his heart. “Why are you here, what do you want from me? Are you here to ruin my reputation? I don’t even know you.”

“We’re not here for that,” Phyllis pipes up quietly. “Please, forgive Mr. Barrow - he can be a bit rash but he means well. We’re here as friends - we’ve been looking for you all over York, because of that photograph.”

“Why?” Mr. Shaw’s voice breaks slightly. “Is Hugh looking for me?”

“His nephew is,” Phyllis says after a hesitation. “Richard Ellis. You met him once, I think, that day in the garden. He was only a toddler at the time. Perhaps you remember?”

“Yeah… yeah, I remember the kid.” Mr. Shaw - Johnnie - picks up the photograph this time, staring at it like he can’t believe it’s real. “He’s looking for me? Why? And why isn’t he here himself? Why the subterfuge?”

“He’s in London.” Thomas has an idea - he gets out his wallet, takes the thumbed calling card that saved his life and hands it over. “I’m… a friend who just wants to help.”

Mr. Shaw shoots him a scrutinising glance before taking the card. “Royal Household,” he reads, arching an eyebrow, and Thomas nods. For the first time, a slight smile crosses the old man’s face. “Hugh’ll be chuffed to bits about that. He was so proud of the bairn even then, I can only imagine -”

Thomas clears his throat, ill at ease, and Johnnie trails off, gaze traveling between the two of them.

“Sir,” Thomas begins, wishing he didn’t have to be the one to deliver these bad tidings, especially after he already jumped down the man’s throat like that, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but - Mr. Bell passed away. About eighteen months ago.”

The way the old man seems to crumble before his very eyes doesn’t make Thomas feel very good about himself. “Hugh… is dead?” he whispers, bracing his hands on the countertop as though without the support, the shock would knock him to the floor.

Thomas may as well be paralysed, but Phyllis has no such trouble, coming forward and reaching out to cover one of Johnnie’s hands with her own. “We are so sorry,” she offers gently. “We hoped you already knew.”

“No… no, I didn’t know,” he stammers. “I’ve only been back from America a few years. I thought of Hugh, of course. Wondered how he’d done in life. I thought of reaching out many times.”

Thomas can’t hold it in. “Why didn’t you?” 

“I - I thought I had more time.” Johnnie quickly wipes at his eyes and accepts the kerchief Thomas fishes from his pocket and offers him. “You always think you’ll get more time, don’t you? And fear - fear held me back. We parted with some bitterness, I wasn’t sure my coming back into his life would be appreciated.”

 _He kept this photograph of you for over thirty years - something tells me it'd have been more than appreciated._ Thomas presses his lips together and manages to hold this final sting inside. It’s clear the news devastated the old man - twisting the knife any deeper would be cruel.

“Look at the back,” he suggests instead, Johnnie’s eyes watering anew as he reads the simple message scrawled in pen: _Johnnie & me, July 1893. _

_Take it all in, old man - he thought of you, whether you believe it or not._

“May as well be another lifetime,” Johnnie muses, turning the photo around again with a wistful sigh. “God, how young we were.”

From within the kitchen, then, comes the shrill sound of a whistling kettle.

“Oh, dear, that’s right,” Johnnie says distractedly, and he straightens up. “I put water on, for tea.”

He says it like that, too, seems a lifetime ago.

“Why don’t I take care of that?” Phyllis suggests. “If you have no objection.”

“What? Oh. No, no, be my guest.”

Phyllis rushes into the kitchen, and a few moments later the whistling stops.

“Hugh was one of the most effervescent, magnetic people I have ever met,” Johnnie says unexpectedly, still not lifting his eyes off of the photograph. “And I’ve met a lot of people in my almost seventy years on this earth. I always thought he wouldn’t have cut a bad figure in Hollywood. His sister neither, for that matter. We look ridiculous together, when you’re being honest - Hugh was an Adonis and then look at me, a funny little goblin. There’s a reason I spent my life behind the camera.” He chuckles softly. “But he… he had a way of drawing people in, of making others feel good about themselves. That’s a gift, you know, and he had it.”

The description cuts, for some reason. _Why are you telling me this,_ Thomas screams on the inside, but he only nods.

“And his nephew… wants to talk to me? To _me_?” Johnnie looks up, his eyes red and puffy. “Why?”

“He has a few questions he hopes you can answer.” Thomas taps the calling card on the counter. He is loath to let it go, having kept it in his wallet all this time for sentimental reasons, but it’s for a good cause. “Call him. Please. You’ve been on his mind ever since he found that photograph among his uncle’s belongings, and he had much the same reaction to it as you do. I think the two of you need to talk - give you both a little closure, perhaps.”

He shuts up abruptly when he catches Johnnie looking at him in a peculiar way, and realises he is probably saying far too much. Johnnie picks up the card and thumbs it thoughtfully.

“You are his friend, you said?”

“I… yes.” Thomas can’t stop a blush from breaking through on his face, but he defiantly keeps Johnnie’s gaze. He reckons he owes him this much, after exposing him so tactlessly earlier. He owes him at least part of his own truth in return. “I am.”

Johnnie nods understandingly, and after a beat - “I wager the bairn has turned out all right, with Hugh as a mentor.”

“More than all right,” Thomas hears himself reply before he can even think to stop his mouth, and feels his blush deepen. _Fuck._ “You’ll like him. He makes it easy to.”

“Does he, indeed?” The old man smiles - a genuine, still-teary but kind smile that lights up his eyes, and he slips the card into his pocket. “Once I have had a little time to get my bearings back, I will give him a call, lad, I promise. I owe that much to Hugh, at least.”

The promise feels genuine, and Thomas thanks him, hugely relieved. He is about to say they really must be going when Miss Baxter enters with a tray.

_Damn it - forgot all about the damn tea._

“Where shall I put this, Mr. Shaw?”

“I have a little sitting area in the back. But let me, dear, let me. I’m not decrepit yet.”

Thomas takes a deep breath. “Mr. Shaw, your hospitality is much appreciated, but Miss Baxter and I had best be off. Downton is quite a journey from here, as you rightly pointed out. Obviously we will pay you for your time as a recompense -”

“My time?” Johnnie looks at him, both eyebrows raised in an offended arch. “Lad, you can pay me for a job well done or not at all.”

“But -”

“Listen,” Johnnie says as he takes the tray from Miss Baxter, “I understand that this was all a ruse to get my undivided attention, but I’m a lonely old man with nothing to do but snap photographs and tell tales of days gone by to anyone who wants to listen. Stay a while, if you can, and let me earn my wages honestly, by sitting for me. Perhaps you can use the time to tell me about little Dickie Ellis, who grew up and went to London.”

“I wouldn’t mind sitting,” Phyllis says unexpectedly before Thomas can give any type of reaction to what Johnnie is proposing. “It’s been ages since I had my portrait taken. I only wish I’d put on a different frock.”

“We’ll make you look smart, dear,” Johnnie promises, and turns to Thomas. “How about it, Mr. Barrow?”

 _Mr. Barrow doesn’t quite understand what is going on at this point,_ Thomas thinks, annoyed. Maybe it’s just that he’s not used to having his efforts met with gratitude and kindness like this, and that must be why the old man’s easy-going attitude irks him, makes him feel jittery, hemmed in. But he also gets the distinct impression that he stands alone in wanting to leave, and the betrayal tastes bitter.

“Seems a waste of time to me,” he mutters, and it isn’t false modesty. Once upon a time perhaps, he was vain - these days he’s got little reason to. “What the fuck would I do with it?”

“Oh,” Johnnie says lightly, an almost conspiratorial glint in his eye, “I can think of at least one thing.”


	8. Richard

“ _You_ do it then - go ahead and do the stitch, if you think you’re so good.”

Richard takes a deep breath, regret over his outburst rearing its head almost as soon as he stops speaking and sees Miss Lawton looking up from the garment he just flung onto the table in anger to meet his gaze with a plain look of disdain.

“Go ahead, then,” he taunts, because knowing what is best and acting accordingly are two vastly different things. “Let’s see you do it right here and now, if it’s as simple as you claim. I challenge you, Miss Lawton.”

“I don’t need to prove myself to _you,_ Mr. Ellis,” she sneers. “And may I remind you - it isn’t my job to mend His Majesty’s clothes, it’s yours, and if you can’t do it properly you don’t belong here.”

Richard grits his teeth. He shouldn’t have lost his temper like that, it isn’t befitting a servant of his seniority, but damn it, she truly got on his last nerve today. What he hates most of all is that he gave her the satisfaction of knowing she got to him with that remark. _That mending job looks atrocious, Mr. Ellis. Men just don’t know how to wield needle and thread - not even men like you._

For a moment, he’d seen red - and reacted the way he did, tossing one of His Majesty’s dinner jackets on the table.

Unforgivable, really. But he’s still seething and can barely bring himself to care about the repercussions.

Thankfully, she opens her loathsome mouth before he can use his to dig himself an even deeper hole. “You surprise me, Mr. Ellis. When I was training in Paris -”

“No one cares, Miss Lawton,” drawls Mr. Miller. Unluckily, he was also present in the room to witness Richard’s loss of control - a most unfortunate happenstance. “No one cared the first time you held us captive with the stories of your glory days in Paris and no one cares now. Please, do us all a kindness and go find a more willing audience, preferably in Paris or even further away.”

As annoyed at Miller’s intervention as he is surprised, Richard starts gathering his things in the knowledge that it’ll be best to remove himself from the situation altogether before he undermines his position in the household even more. He collects the jacket he threw down on the table none too respectfully - he’ll have to make double sure it’s in perfect order before returning it to the King.

Lawton, meanwhile, has turned her venom on Miller instead. “You don’t intimidate me, Mr. Miller,” she tells him coolly. “None of your sort do.”

The legs of Richard’s chair scrape across the floor as he pushes back and gets up - God, he needs to get _out_ \- but Miller just grins, unaffected. “Oh, come now, Miss Lawton... We valets are not _all_ bad.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Mr. Miller.” She curls her lip contemptuously. “By all means, keep telling yourself that. But one day, mark my words, you’ll find yourself wishing you’d made friends with me.”

“None of us are friends here, Miss Lawton.” There is a beat of silence then, and Richard can sense in that moment all three of them being hit by the truth in those words. Oh, what a complicated, treacherous web of secrets and intrigue they are tangled in, all of them the spider and all of them the prey at the same time. Miller continues in a conversational tone, “Snatched any good brooches lately, Miss Lawton? An ashtray, perhaps? I noticed you admiring the Duchess of Somerset’s powder box the other day - what does a piece like that fetch on the black market these days, do tell?”

Richard laughs. He knows he shouldn’t, he should just leave already like he promised himself he would, but damn it, he does enjoy Miller laying into Lawton like this.

“You can laugh, Mr. Ellis,” Miss Lawton says, “but don’t think I haven’t got any interesting facts to share about you if anyone were to ask. How are your friends up in Yorkshire? Downton, I think it was, although all those country villages start looking alike after a while. Have you talked to any of them lately? Received any letters?”

It comes as no surprise that she brings this up, nor is it the first time. He’s noticed that she will occasionally mention Downton to him, making sure he knows she suspects he wasn’t exactly an innocent bystander in what happened while they were there. He doubts she has any real proof - if she did, he would know it - but his reaction to these needle pricks could be almost as damaging. And he worries that lately his reactions have been becoming more telling.

The best reaction to give her, really, is no reaction at all. He simply turns and walks out without greeting either of them, but he can hear Miller getting up and following him out of the room.

“Ellis, wait up.”

“Bugger off, Alan.”

“Damn it, Ellis. Don’t make me run after you, it’s undignified.” He grasps Richard by the shoulder as he catches up to him, making him stop. Glancing up and down the corridor to make sure their conversation is private, he asks, “What are you doing, letting Lawton get to you like that? You’re usually better than that.”

“Why do you care?” Miller harrumphs. “No, seriously, why? We’re not friends, as you pointed out a minute ago, so why get involved at all? Why not just sit back and enjoy the dog fight as you normally do?”

“She insults one of us, she insults all of us.” Miller shrugs, and for the briefest of moments, Richard is almost touched by this unexpected and unprecedented declaration of solidarity. But then he remembers it’s _Miller_ , who is a spider in his own right, and a ruthless strategist who wouldn’t waste time on forging alliances with anyone unless it benefited him somehow.

“No need to do me any favours, Alan. Lawton is small potatoes, she just caught me at a bad time, that’s all.” 

“Seems like people are always catching you at a bad time lately, if you ask me.”

“Well, that's the point, isn't it? No one asked you.”

Miller smiles, undeterred. “Listen, Ellis, I personally don’t give a fig if you were in cahoots with the bumpkins or not, but be careful of Lawton. She’s onto you, and you don’t do yourself any favours by giving her a reaction.”

“Contrary to what you may believe after what you just witnessed, I’m not a child who needs to be told how to behave, Mr. Miller.”

“I think I know what you do need most of all,” Miller smirks, and Richard rolls his eyes at the overt innuendo. “You may mock, Mr. Ellis, but you know I’m right. This is a stressful environment, and a bloke needs to release some of that tension every now and then, or he’ll go mad.”

“My, Alan, are you offering?” Richard grins, as he can see that Mr. Miller is thrown a bit by this retort - evidently he hadn’t expected Richard to go there. “Buy me a drink first and I’ll think about it. I like a bit of proper courting.”

“Fuck off,” Miller mutters, and Richard considers that victory. “It’s free advice, do with it what you like. Anyroad, I’m taking a break in ten. Join me or not, see if I care.”

With that, he turns and stalks off, leaving Richard to ponder the odd realisation that out of all his coworkers, Mr. Miller may be the one he dislikes the least.

It reminds him of a sunny afternoon in July last year, almost a year ago, driving down from the Abbey in a car from the Earl’s fleet with Mr. Barrow sitting in the passenger seat next to him. He’d felt like the King himself in that moment, freedom stretching out before them, his clammy hands gripping the steering wheel as he remembered, giddily, the way Mr. Barrow had blushed when Richard offered him the car keys he’d charmed off of Mr. Pickett. “I can’t drive, Mr. Ellis…”

Thomas had directed him to the post office and then grown very quiet as Richard shut the engine off and turned to face him expectantly, assuming he’d get out, do his errands and return in a few minutes. Richard had already thought out how he would wait for him, leaning on the bonnet of the car and smoking a cigarette. Perhaps, if he felt sure enough of himself, he might unbutton his coat and cross his ankles, he hadn’t quite decided yet. The last thing he wanted was to ruffle Mr. Barrow’s feathers by acting too casual too quickly.

“Mr. Ellis,” Mr. Barrow then said unexpectedly, looking down at his knees, “do you like the people you work with?”

Richard was immediately intrigued. He’d gotten the sense that something was brewing back at the house, but he hadn’t dared to hope he’d be taken into confidence about any of it. Still, he didn’t want to reveal all his cards at once. “I’m curious as to why you ask me that, Mr. Barrow.”

“I ask because I could use your help,” Mr. Barrow replied, and Richard got a little jolt as he looked up, and their eyes met. “And I need to know if I can trust you.”

Richard nodded slowly. “Yes, I would like to be someone you could trust.”

But Thomas was insistent, and suspicious, as any sensible man would be. “And your coworkers…?”

It was then that Richard decided to throw caution to the wind. “Don’t particularly care for them. Hate them all, as a matter of fact.”

_And even if I didn’t, I’m pretty sure I’d betray them the minute you asked me to._

He didn’t say that last bit, of course. But he hoped with all his heart that Mr. Barrow would sense some of it, and respond favourably.

To his relief, Mr. Barrow smiled - a wily and at the same time sweet smile that made Richard’s heart thump against his ribs, in his throat and in his ears. Oh God, he was hopeless. “I rather hoped you’d say that. I was worried you’d have… moral objections to what I’m about to propose. Because make no mistake, Mr. Ellis, the royal lot will come out looking rather foolish at the end of it all. Are you absolutely sure you want to be complicit in such a scheme?”

Richard did him the courtesy of careful consideration, pretending to think about it for a moment as if he hadn’t already made up his mind. “Hand me the knife, Mr. Barrow, and I’ll do the stabbing.”

He blinks, and the warmth of that distant day (the warmth that had filled Thomas's eyes when Richard gave that cocky reply, a memory that sits in his mind in saturated colours) dissipates, leaving him standing in a narrow corridor, deep in the labyrinth of the Palace. A year - has it really been that long since they forged this thing, and how much longer can they keep going like this, exchanging letters and the occasional phone call, seeing each other once or twice a year? Is that all they’ll ever have?

It can’t be. It _can’t._ He can feel his heart shriveling up at the thought alone.

He climbs the stairs to the attics to deposit his things, and gets sidetracked cleaning up the chaos he left behind earlier that morning, distributing his clean laundry over his wardrobe and filling the hamper with those items that need a wash. When the room is in reasonably good shape, he spends a few moments taking it in, his little domain that isn’t truly his, when you think about it. One word from Lawton to the right person could send him packing, so how much of it could he claim for his own, really? Aside from the wireless, he could probably fit all of his earthly belongings in a suitcase, just as he was when he came to London at seventeen.

The thought is depressing. Twenty years in service, and how much does he have to show for it? He has been able to set aside part of his wages for his retirement, yes, but other than that? He has a narrow bed to sleep in, some storage space, his little desk and a window that allows him to look at the empty sky. Some convicted felons have it better, he sometimes thinks rebelliously, only to hate himself for the thought a moment later.

His gaze lingers on the bed. It is fit for sleeping but not much else, so even if it were hypothetically possible to smuggle a lover in here, they’d be seriously limited in what they could do. Mr. Miller is better situated, being the first valet - just one more reason to pursue the position - but his modus operandi is to get some good time in while traveling with the royal household - no fuss, no attachment, none of that _mawkish nonsense_. To Richard it just seems awfully tiring to have a beau in every port, and not without risks of its own, but if it’s how Miller gets by, who is he to judge?

If only Miller returned that favour, but he senses in everything that the senior valet has opinions about the way _he_ does things - rather, about the fact that he’s choosing to be faithful to his ‘Yorkshire beau’. But it’s not as if he doesn’t know how to release tension, as Miller so delicately put it. He releases tension regularly, and Thomas is front and center in his mind whenever he does. What is more, sometimes Thomas is the direct cause of him needing to release tension. A month ago, Richard received a small package in the post, on the day of his birthday. Inside were a pair of cufflinks, and a note unlike any he had received from Thomas before. He’d read the letter in bed that night, slowly - savouring every line, every intimate word Thomas had entrusted to paper, each carefully chosen, it seemed, to rouse Richard’s urges.

_Kitten,_

_I saw these and thought of you - of that morning in February, to be exact, the last we spent together. (Please try not to displace these, as I’m not there to keep track of where you put your things.) I remember watching you get dressed and thinking what a shame it was you had to get dressed at all. I remember thinking I would like to one day spend the morning as we did then, with my mouth on you and yours on me, and to stay abed for hours afterwards, naked, loving each other in all the ways we haven’t yet had the chance to try. I remember how incredible it felt to fall over the edge together, me releasing onto your talented tongue as I tasted your release on mine. Do you want to know what else I remember? I remember being clumsy as I pulled off of your spent cock - I was a little dazed at the time, so please don’t think too harshly of me for that! - and licking the spillage off your thumb. So greedy, wasn’t I? So eager for every drop._

By this point, Richard had slipped his hand into the trousers of his pajamas to stroke himself as he read. Oh, he remembered the things Thomas was describing so well himself, but to get a glimpse into Thomas’s mind as he relived them in his own words awakened his verve like nothing else could. He was probably imagining it - wishful thinking could cloud one’s mind and judgment - but it seemed to him that Thomas’s handwriting was not as regular as it could be, and he opted to believe that it was because he too had been touching himself as he wrote.

_But I did not get to taste every drop, did I? You had different plans, and such imaginative plans they were. Would you be very surprised to hear that I liked it more than I expected? To part ways that morning, knowing that I carried your mark on my very chest, and that you yourself had put it there, rubbed it into my skin so deliberately - I feel atremble even now, thinking about it, and thinking about the fact that you couldn’t bring yourself to take the sponge to that spot, while I was at your tender mercy in the tub… Although sadly all traces of you have long since been washed off my skin, I keep wondering what it’d feel like, to let you indulge a bit more than you did at the time._

It was here that Richard had gotten out of bed to fetch a towel from his wardrobe, the front of his trousers tenting significantly. Returning to the bed, he knelt facing the wall, pushing his trousers and underwear down only as far as he needed to continue what he started, spreading the towel between his legs and putting the letter on his pillow so he could read Thomas’s words over and over.

_To let you indulge a bit more than you did at the time..._

Kneeling on the bed and imaging himself to be seated on Thomas’s chest, he’d used one hand to brace himself on the wall while he took care of himself with the other, deliberately and as slowly as he could manage it, letting the heat inside him build gradually as he knew Thomas would want him to. Newly thirty-seven years old, he’d felt some of that shame and guilt he had felt as a young adolescent, discovering masturbation for the first time, but at the same time he reveled in the act so deliberately committed while the lamp on his bedside table still burned, mere minutes after he knelt by his bed for the purpose of prayer.

It’d felt like an act of sinful rebellion - the Bible didn’t explicitly condemn self-stimulation, but he thought of a man as he was doing it, of a man’s body between his legs, a man’s hairy chest, and throughout he imagined Thomas to be smiling up at him, encouraging and praising him with murmured filthy words, with touches of his hands and fingers. But the hand on his prick was always his own, a fact he was unable to put out of his mind completely, and it pushed him to stroke himself at an ever angrier, more punishing pace, shame and arousal obscenely intertwined. When he finally spent himself, he closed his eyes and pictured himself to be painting Thomas’s chest liberally with come, and the expression he’d hope to see on Thomas’s face, so proud and pleased to be indulged so generously.

_I hope that you think of me when you wear these, and miss me and yearn for me as much as I miss and yearn for you. Happy birthday, my darling. I kiss you a thousand times._

He’d written a reply in kind the very next day.

_Dearest - last night I pictured your beautiful face gazing up at me as I pleasured myself, for your letter had such an effect on me that I could not finish it before bringing myself to completion, thinking of your body and everything you described happening between us the last time we met. Rest assured that my memories of that morning are as vivid as yours, and I indulge in them often. I think of your hands, your chest, your sex, the tightness and heat of your body when you open up to me, be it my fingers or my prick. You fell apart on my fingers so beautifully. I dream of seeing that again. I dream of hearing your moans, feeling you tremble around me as I take you. It's been almost a year since I got the chance to be inside you, and that makes me burn even more._

_But most often of all I think of your mouth. There isn't a sight on this earth more erotic to me than that of your pink, full lips around my cock, the way your cheeks hollow when you swallow (so similar to when you take a drag on one of your damn cigarettes, so maybe you can understand why the activity is so distracting to me), and your eyes grow dazed as you take me deeper inside you. I’m amazed at how quickly your tongue learned to cradle and caress me when I am at my most sensitive, teasing the sharpest pleasure out of me - pleasure that at times almost becomes an ache, but never pain... no, there’s no pain with you._

Sometimes he stands surprised at the things he commits to paper... but he can't quite bring himself to feel regret. Maybe because Thomas so far has proven himself to be equally as eager, equally as reckless: he responds to every ardent missive Richard sends with pages just as passionate, and there's something almost defiant about it, about their shared refusal to let these thoughts and these desires go unspoken, unwritten.

Taking a deep breath, he shakes off these reminiscences and goes downstairs to join Miller in their smoking spot in one of the courtyards. The summer heat slapping him in the face takes him by surprise - perhaps because it still feels like a barren, cold winter in his heart.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” Miller mutters as he offers Richard a cigarette from his silver case.

Richard smirks at him before lighting up, shielding the flame with his hand. “Because of earlier? Come on, Alan, we’ve had worse tiffs than that and reconciled.”

“You’re a pain in my neck, Ellis.” Miller lifts his cigarette to his lips, sizing Richard up as he sucks in. “And you gamble with fate more than is good for you. I don’t like it.” 

“You almost make it sound as if you care.”

“Oh, no, I don’t. But you’re entertaining, and I have no qualms about admitting that this place would be far less interesting without you around. So get your head back in the game, if you please.”

“My head is always in the game.”

“I seriously doubt that.” Miller flicks the ash from his cigarette. “I don’t know what happened up in Yorkshire, Ellis, but I’m getting the sense that you haven’t been as sharp. You never let Lawton get under your skin, and today she insults your stitch and you snap? It’s beneath you.”

“Well, you didn’t do me any favours by jumping in like that, no matter how gallant your intentions,” Richard tartly retorts. “Every man for himself around here, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Usually yes, but I do speak out against bigotry, Mr. Ellis. That’s my right as an English citizen, and I don’t care what you have to say about it.”

Richard sighs, and for a minute they smoke in silence, the sun glinting off the white stone façades looking out onto the courtyard. “Have you ever…” He hesitates, just for a moment. “Have you ever wondered if there’s more to life than this, Alan?"

“More than what, exactly?”

“This.” Richard gestures at his surroundings in general. “Service. The mending, the backstabbing, the pomp and the starch. His Majesty’s tweeds. Don’t you ever wonder?”

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning,” Miller says, and Richard can tell he truly doesn’t grasp it. It’s not surprising - Miller was born into this life and would never question its value. “You've got the security of steady wages, and very reasonable wages they are, not to mention a position in the highest echelons of our constitutional monarchy. There is travel, intrigue, prestige, power at our fingertips, if we play the game well. What more could there possibly be to strive for?”

“Some people want love, Alan. Companionship.”

Miller grins. “So I’ve heard. Thank God I’m not one of them, is all I can say. Why settle for one course when you can have the whole buffet?”

“Don’t be crude, Alan. It isn’t like you.”

“I know, but your brooding is throwing me off. That's the problem, Ellis, you're thinking too much. Sorry for reiterating the point, but when was the last time you unwinded a bit, for Christ's sake? When you went out with that friend of yours? The bloke who left service, I don’t remember his name.”

About a month ago, two days after his birthday, Richard had met Theo for drinks in Soho. It’d been over a year since they met in person, but the minute Richard saw his old friend walking into the bar, it was as if no time had passed at all. Although pushing forty-five, Theo still had the same mop of unruly brown hair and calflike gait he did when they met and befriended each other twenty years ago, and his face still lit up with the same boyish smile when he spotted Richard and made a beeline for his table. When Richard got up and offered his hand, Theo grabbed it only to pull Richard closer and embrace him warmly. They were of a height, and Richard melted into that rare display of male affection like butter in a skillet.

“Good to see you, Yorkshire,” Theo murmured. “Haven’t aged a day, have you? Still the prettiest face in the crowd.”

“Can’t say the same of you, Wilkins. You’ve gained weight since I last saw you.”

Theo laughed heartily and started to pull away, but Richard, loath to separate so soon, clung to him for a few seconds longer. It’d been months since anyone touched him, was tactile or affectionate with him, and oh he’d missed it so - it felt so good just to be _held._ He squeezed the other man a little closer before reluctantly letting go.

“Everything all right?” Theo asked as they sat down, and he placed his hat on the table alongside Richard’s. He shrugged out of his overcoat and draped it over his chair, taking out his cigarette case and lighter.

“Of course.” Richard grinned and leaned closer to accept the flame from Theo’s lighter. “You know me.”

“That’s why I ask.” Theo blew out slowly, regarding Richard through the smoke. “How are things at the Firm? The last time you and I managed to meet up, you mentioned the Yorkshire tour. Seemed proper excited about it. How’d that shake out?”

“Oh, you know.” Richard shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly my first spin on the carousel, as far as royal tours go, but I enjoyed it well enough. Got to mingle with my own people for a bit, looked in on Mum and Dad, which was a nice surprise for them. Isn’t often I get to do that.”

“Your Mum must have been chuffed.” Theo smiled, pulling the ashtray toward him. “The prodigal son returned.”

“Only for an hour or two,” Richard amended, also smiling. Theo, himself orphaned young, loved to tease him for being a mummy’s boy, but it was always in the spirit of affection. “But yeah, she was thrilled.”

“Only two hours? They wouldn’t let you take a little more time to visit your parents? Christ, Pip.”

It was on the tip of Richard’s tongue to confirm it, but he hesitated just a second too long to pull it off convincingly - he could see Theo’s eyes lighting up with intrigue. “I had another… engagement.”

“Did you, indeed?” Balancing his cigarette on the ashtray, Theo got to his feet. “You’ll have to tell me more about that once I return with drinks.”

But when Theo came back to the table a few minutes later with two glasses of Scotch, it was to find Richard trying to politely fend off a slender, pale blond who’d approached him almost the second Theo turned his back. His suitor reminded him of Rudy, actually - that is, of that time he had found himself in a bar very similar to this one, feeling so hopeless and miserable he’d let the first interested party fondle his hair. From there his mind made an easy leap to when he’d confessed the whole thing to Thomas, who'd been understandably upset and then had reacted with a possessiveness that still made Richard feel a frisson of heat in his belly, even after all these months, even as just a memory… which was all well and good, if it weren’t for the fact that he was trying to pretend with Theo there was nothing to report as regards his love life.

"Scamper off, sunshine," Theo said with a rascally grin as he slid back into his seat, "he's mine tonight."

"Very subtle," Richard remarked drily as the blond beat a gracious retreat, acknowledging his better in Theo. "You're finally ready to claim me for your own, then? Been making me wait long enough, Cricket."

"Fuck off, brat." Theo laughed. "You looked like you wanted saving, that's all. If I was wrong, I'm happy to back off. I'm not one to deny a friend a bit of fun."

"Very magnanimous of you." Richard took his glass between his fingers. "But I have no plans to indulge."

"Hmmm. Any particular reason?"

"I'm here with a dear friend, whom I haven't seen in over a year. Do I need more reason than that?"

"The Dick Ellis I know doesn't pass up on an opportunity, is all."

"You always manage to make me sound like the worst sort of libertine. I'm not that young stallion anymore, Theo. In case you need reminding, I turned thirty-seven two days ago. Ready to be put out to pasture."

"Oh, bollocks. As if you'd let anything as trivial as old age stop you from getting some. Unless..." Theo leaned forward on his elbows. "Unless Dickie's got a sweetheart he hasn't told me about."

Richard's heart skipped a beat, for the shock of being sniffed out as much as for that one word - _sweetheart._ He'd never have thought to refer to Thomas in that way, not out loud. Not to anyone. Men like him didn’t have sweethearts, did they? A sweetheart was someone you took to the fair, or to the pictures, someone you walked home afterwards and held hands with and tried to kiss before their parents saw you. A sweetheart wasn’t someone you corresponded with and saw just once or twice a year.

_Was it?_

"What makes you think that I do?" he countered and oh, it came out terribly unconvincingly. "And why wouldn't I tell you about it if I did?"

"I don't know, Pip. You're inscrutable sometimes, is all I'm saying. But I do know that you're an old-fashioned romantic at heart, and being unfaithful isn't in your makeup. With the exception of that time you were involved with that Scotsman, what was his name again?"

Richard made a face. The memory of that particular episode in his life tasted bitter, but at least it’d draw the attention away from what they were originally discussing. "Russell."

“Oh, right. Russell. The two of you had an interesting relationship. Did a real number on you, as I recall. Why did you put up with it all? Can’t have been the charming Scottish brogue alone that kept you clinging on against your better judgment.”

Richard shrugged and took a draught. “That was a big part of it, actually.” Theo grinned. “Ah, I don’t know, Wilk. It was, what, 1920? I was trying to do things differently after the war, to reinvent myself as a different man.”

“You were trying to be someone you’re not, is what you’re saying.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “If you like. Anyroad, it didn’t last, did it? Couldn’t keep up with him in the end.”

“I know. Imagine that.” Theo took a slow, almost meditative drag of his cigarette. “All that promiscuous sex does tire one out, doesn’t it? Especially if there’s a current of spite running underneath it all.”

Richard nearly choked on his drink. “Jesus Christ, Theodore,” he coughed, “if I’d known you were going to take me to task over my past relationships, I’d have come prepared. There’s some skeletons in your own closet we could spend the evening examining.”

“You think you're being oh-so-clever, trying to change the subject by reminding me of long forgotten flings,” Theo promptly replied, shaking his head while brushing an invisible piece of lint from the sleeve of his jacket. “But you haven't taken a drag from your cigarette since you first lit it, and that means you're nervous.”

Richard looked at his neglected cigarette and realised he was right. _Him and his damn tells._ “I don’t suppose there’s much point in continuing to deny it,” he muttered, and got another big grin in reply.

“I knew it. I could tell from your letters _something_ was up. And the fact that you’re keeping quiet about it tells me it’s not just a fling, either.”

Richard harrumphed and adjusted his cuffs. Truth be told, he didn’t know why he was so reticent about mentioning Thomas to his oldest friend. By all rights, shouldn’t he be gushing? His heart overflowing?

“Nice cufflinks,” Theo observed, and Richard stopped fiddling straight away. Too late, obviously. “Birthday gift?”

Richard nodded, trying his damnedest not to think of the letter that accompanied said gift.

“Hopefully they’ll go well with this.” Theo reached into his jacket and withdrew a small, flat gift package, pushing it across the table. “Happy 37th, Yorkshire.”

Inside the package was a silver tie pin, engraved with his initials - _R.E.E_. “It’s lovely,” he said, smiling as he admired the fine engraving. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it, Dick.”

Neither of them added anything else for a few moments, then Richard took a deep breath and said, “I wanted to tell you about him sooner, I swear, it's just that…”

“It's just that this one's different, isn't he?”

Richard nodded. It felt rather terrifying to acknowledge it in the open like this, but the thought of denying it, of denying everything there was between him and Thomas felt too wrong to even contemplate.

“Since when?” Theo asked, and Richard felt a thrill at the answer to that question.

“A year next month.” He swirled what remained of his drink around in his glass. “It’s mostly letters at the moment, and the occasional phone call when we can manage it. He’s up in Yorkshire.”

“One of your own, huh?” Theo sniggered. “Well, at least you spurned your parents for good reason. What’s this mystery man called?”

“Thomas.” Richard saw Theo smirking and blushed. “Oh, bugger off - don’t look so damn smug. It’s just a name.”

“Yes… and no.” Theo unexpectedly leaned across the table and kissed him on the forehead, just as he had the night they began their friendship, when a dazed Richard wandered the halls of the house after Lord Finch’s assault. “Happy for you, Pip.”

“Why do you call me that?” Richard had asked one time, not too long after that fateful evening. They were in Theo’s room, sitting side by side on the bed as they sometimes did, swigging from a bottle of wine from Theo’s secret stash. Richard loved those moments dearly - they made him miss a little less everything he left behind in Yorkshire.

“Haven’t you read _Great Expectations?_ ” Richard had to confess that he hadn’t. “I’ll loan it to you. It’s one of my favourites.” He smiled as he caressed Richard’s hair fondly. “Precocious Pip. Go easy on that wine, will you? You drink it faster than I can steal it.”

Richard closed his eyes and breathed out when Theo’s lips brushed his forehead. He wasn’t falling in love with the older footman, or so he told himself, and yet he found himself yearning more and more for these moments of tactile affection, the nearness of another body that just existed comfortably in the same space, not taking what he didn’t offer by force but gently coaxing tenderness out of him that hadn’t been allowed to come to the surface before. He had never _cuddled_ like this with another male, but Theo taught him it was in him to enjoy it. To welcome and even initiate it. He tentatively put his hand on Theo’s knee and looked up into his face, those warm brown eyes smiling at him. “I want a name to call you by as well.”

"And I'm sure you'll find it." Theo took the bottle from Richard's fingers and brought it to his lips. "Just don't make it too flattering. In fact, the less flattering the better."

Since Theo didn't seem to object to Richard's hand on his knee, Richard kept it there. "Do you have siblings?" he asked, because it was always one of the first questions he asked when he wanted to get to know someone. Theo had then proceeded to tell him that his parents had both died when he was fourteen years old, leaving him and his five younger siblings orphans. Thankfully, his mother's sister and her husband had lovingly taken them into their home, despite the additional cost of providing for such a large brood. To help out, Theo had gone into service, sending his wages home to his aunt and uncle to feed the little ones. He didn't get to see them often, and even less so once he traded his local family for a position with better pay in London, but he went home whenever he could, only to be buried under a pile of toddlers all vying to be the first to get a kiss and a hug.

"They're older now, of course," he told Richard somewhat wistfully, "some of them have positions of their own. Charlie's learning to be a carpenter and Daphne and Abby, the twins, are sixteen... little hellspawn that they were." He laughed. "Couldn’t take your eyes off them for a second. I did once, to my detriment. My aunt and uncle’s kitchen flooded and me having to clean it up before they came home while two tantruming five-year-olds ran circles around me. Yes, you may laugh, Pip… but I swear, I decided right then and there never to have children of my own.”

“I’m sure you missed them a lot, being away,” Richard said once he was able to stop laughing. The more Theo told him, the more chaotic the Wilkins brood became in his mind. “Blimey, I can’t imagine having five siblings. I envy you. I’m sure you were never lonely growing up.”

“And I envy you, Pip,” Theo says earnestly and entirely without rancour. “I wish I still had a Mum to love me, like you. My aunt’s a dear woman, I’ll never say anything against her, but they lived far away from us and I barely knew her when we arrived on their doorstep. Sometimes you just want your Mum to give you a cuddle and tell you everything’s going to be all right, even when you’re a tough lad of fourteen… or twenty-five.” He chuckled, but there was a wistful look in his eye as he passed the wine bottle back to Richard.

“I’ll - I’ll ask my Mum to give you some of her love,” Richard stuttered. “I know you don’t know her, but she’s got plenty… I’ll ask her to put you in her prayers, if that’s all right. I’m sure she thinks kindly of you already, because you’re my friend.”

“You would do that?” Richard nodded, not sure how to interpret Theo’s tone, until Theo unexpectedly leaned in and kissed him tenderly on the lips - just a peck, nothing more, but a peck that conveyed a great depth of warmth and feeling. “You are something else, Yorkshire,” he said as he pulled away, shaking his head. His eyes were bright. “Truly something else.”

And Richard had been right - a few days later, there was a letter in the mail from his Mum, addressed to Theo. As far as Richard knew, they still corresponded to this day.

“How’s your Mum doing?” Theo asked, almost as if on cue, and Richard jumped at the opportunity to talk about something other than the man whose cufflinks he wore and whose hairlock he kept hidden deep in his personal belongings, but they circled back to Thomas soon enough - Theo made sure of that - and gradually, bit by bit, Richard’s reticence began to thaw and answers to Theo’s questions began trickling out of him, swelling to a tempestuous river. The alcohol flowed just as liberally, both of them more unsteady on their feet every time they got up to fetch another round. The bar grew more and more crowded, and Richard didn’t much like that - crowded bars drew more attention, and more attention meant more risk. Richard had avoided being caught up in a raid for years, a positive trend he very much hoped to continue. But when he suggested to Theo they call it a night -

“Not so fast, Dick,” Theo slurred. “I saw an interesting prospect in the crowd when I went for a piss earlier.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t have taken care of this a half hour ago?”

“Ah, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Pip. We can’t all live like monks - some of us don’t have a handsome butler pining for us up north.”

“Bugger _off_.”

“Trying to.” Theo grinned and cast a glance over his shoulder, trying to find the face he saw earlier. “So if you don't mind, I think I'll...?” 

Richard sighed and waved him off. “Be my guest.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Theo babbled. “Can’t leave you like this for too long, languishing with love like some silver screen Adonis. You’ll be fighting them off with a stick.”

“Good _bye_ , Theodore.”

Theo took the hint and went, mouthing _back in ten_ at Richard, who groaned into his whisky glass and wished there was more left in it to last him until Theo deigned to return.

 _Stood up on his own birthday, more or less,_ he thought sulkily. _Lovely._

But Theo kept word and was back in ten minutes, having already paid and waving away Richard’s protests. “Tonight’s on me, Yorkshire.” By the time they said goodnight at Theo’s hotel, Richard’s didn’t even remember what he’d been sulking about in the first place. He just knew that evenings like these were too few and far between, and he was so, so tired of the betweens that seemed to stretch ever longer, of the farewells that wore on his spirit a little more each time.

Now, as he looks at Miller, he realises he’s going to have to swallow his pride and ask him for another favour. _Ugh._

“If you want me to unwind, Alan, be so good as to cover for me tomorrow from… two-ish, shall we say? I promise to return thoroughly unwound, although not in the manner you so tastefully suggested earlier.”

Miller raises his eyebrows. “How long for?”

“Will you do it or not?”

“I may be persuaded, if you care to tell me where you’re going.”

“King’s Cross. After that, who knows? Do you need an itinerary?”

“Who are you meeting?”

Richard drops his smoldering cigarette and uses the tip of his shoe to push it into a deep furrow between two cobblestones, out of view. “My mother, Mr. Miller. I’m taking her shopping, and she’ll be thrilled to hear you take such an interest in her comings and goings.”

Miller looks sour. “I _don’t_.”

“Are you sure? I could bring her by and introduce you.”

“Keep going like this, Ellis, and you can find another clown to help you.”

“It’s settled then.” Richard grimaces. “Thank you, Alan. I’d rather not let my Mum traipse around London by herself. She acts all tough, but she’s still a Yorkshire gal, and getting on a bit -”

“Save your mindless chatter for someone who’s interested, Ellis,” Miller grunts as he carefully stubs out his cigarette and puts the stub in his pocket with a pointed look at Richard. “I’ll come find you when I need a favour in return.”

“I’m sure you will.”

For once Miller lets him have the last word, but the annoyed glint in his eyes promises retribution. That's a worry for another time, though: right now he has a stitch to get back to, not to mention a meeting with the tailor that promises to be long and dreary, and hopefully before he knows it he'll be sitting down for supper and retiring for the night. Once he settles his head on the pillow, this day will be over at long last and it won’t be a minute too soon.

*

The long hand of the King’s Cross station clock jumps to 14:27 as Richard walks into the hall and he wants to tear his hair out. There must be something in his makeup, some faulty wiring in his brain that renders him incapable of ever arriving somewhere on time.

The train from York was scheduled to arrive at 14:18. He’d wanted to be there when it pulled in, to hear the squealing brakes and smell the fumes as it slowly ground to a halt, to watch the doors open and the passengers pour onto the platform. He always enjoys watching the faces of people unboarding a train - the relief to be home again, or to be able to stretch one’s legs, the awe and wonder on the faces of people seeing London for the first time. He was one of them, once, a long time ago - seeming longer every day.

He really is too young for thoughts of this nature, but that doesn’t stop him from having them all the same.

The train is there, empty, waiting to fill up again with new passengers and their luggage. There are people milling on the platform, recently arrived or ready to depart, it’s hard to tell the difference. Families are celebrating joyful reunions, a couple is embracing in front of a newspaper stand. Their kiss gives him a pang, and he finds himself having to look away, not out of piety but something else entirely, with a little resentment mixed in. The last time he went to King’s Cross to meet his Mum - he’d been late that time too - she’d seen him looking at a man and a woman openly embracing on the platform and taken his arm, making some inconsequential remark about an advertisement.

She was usually more subtle than that. But he loved her for the intention all the same.

In his distraction, he nearly trips over an unattended hatbox left on the platform. When he looks around to see who it may belong to, he sees an elegant young woman with a suitcase by the waiting train, waving at him. He picks up the box and carries it over. “Let me help you with that, Miss,” he says, and she smiles at him gratefully.

“You’re most kind, Sir, thank you.”

Carrying both the suitcase and the much lighter hatbox, he accompanies her to her seat, lifting the items into the baggage compartment. She thanks him again, and he detects a trace of a familiar accent. “Going home, Miss?” he asks her, and she gives him a warm smile. She looks like she belongs in London more than York, with her impeccable blond curls and bright red lipstick, but she confirms his suspicion.

“I am,” she says in Broad Yorkshire, “and yourself, Sir?” She sits, and gestures to invite him to do the same, but he shakes his head.

“I wish,” he says, attempting a smile. “I’m just here to meet someone.”

“Shame,” she says, smile unwavering, and he’s taken aback, though he isn’t sure why he would be. Once upon a time, he may even have taken the time to flirt a little, but who would he be posing for if he did? What purpose would it serve?

He tips his hat politely. “Have a pleasant journey, Miss.”

When he steps onto the platform again, it is 14:42 and he has the sinking realisation that he is almost a half hour late, not quite a personal record but close, and unforgivable because today of all days, every minute is one that counts double. What is worse, the platform is almost empty by now, so perhaps he had best head back to the hall and see if -

“Mr. Ellis?”

He startles like a man with a guilty conscience and turns around to find an elderly man standing in front of him. He is shorter in stature than Richard expected based on the description Thomas had given him over the telephone, carrying an attache case in one hand and looking up at Richard with a peculiar, sad smile. “Mr. Richard Ellis - you are him, aren’t you? You’re a dead ringer for your uncle, lad.”

Richard thought he was prepared for this moment, but as it turns out, he really isn’t. He wants to step closer and offer the man his hand, apologise for making him wait, but he finds he is nailed to the spot, unable to move or even smile.

“I am,” he finally manages to confirm, and it rouses him from his stupor a little bit, to the point where he can observe etiquette and shake the man’s hand. “Thank you for coming all the way to London to meet me, Mr. Shaw.”


	9. Richard (cont'd)

“I changed my name after crossing over to America. ‘Jack’ felt more grown-up, more suited to the established _artiste_ I aspired to become on the other side of the big pond. ‘Johnnie’ was someone I was trying to leave behind.”

Richard nods thoughtfully. He’d suggested they go to a tearoom to talk, but Johnnie, who’d spent hours cooped up in a train car, opted to stretch his legs in a walk, first. And so they find themselves strolling along the north bank of the Thames, the cupola of St Paul’s Cathedral looming to their left, the Tower beckoning further downstream. It is a fair summer day in July, a gentle offshore wind stirring the surface of the river, and there is barely any smog. The city is presenting itself at its best today, to the point of showing off. “I can understand that line of reasoning, Mr. Shaw. The need to, I don’t know, wipe the slate clean. I am sure you have many interesting stories to tell about your time in America.”

“Oh, I do. But those are not the stories I came to tell, are they?” A slight smile crosses Johnnie’s face. Dressed flamboyantly, he doesn’t cut a bad figure in the capital at all. “And please, call me Jack, or Johnnie if you prefer. I wouldn’t mind if you did. But Mr. Shaw makes me feel old, which I am, but…”

“You look spry enough to me.”

“You’re a dear lad. But I’m not surprised - you come from good people.”

Richard casts a sideways glance at the older man beside him, finding himself having to swallow before he can respond. “Thank you. Thank you for saying that. And once again, thank you for reaching out and making the long journey to meet with me. For a while I dared not hope this day would come.”

“Your friend, Mr. Barrow, was very persuasive,” Johnnie says thoughtfully, and chuckles to himself. “He’s a very… intense young gentleman.”

Richard smiles. Thomas had described to him how that first meeting went down, and hadn’t spared himself in the telling. “He can be, yeah.”

“I liked him tremendously. I’ve never cared much for the pussyfooting type.” He points his cane at a bench facing the river. “Shall we sit?”

They do as he suggests, and for a minute or two they just sit there side by side, watching the sunshine reflect off of the brown water of the Thames, watching the seagulls. Richard finds he can’t speak - his heart is overflowing with questions he wants to ask this man, but now that he’s here, alive and willing to provide some answers, he can’t decide where to start.

It is Johnnie who breaks the silence in the end. Leaning forward with his chin on his hands, which are propped up on his cane, he doesn’t take his eyes off of the view ahead as he muses aloud, “Haven’t been back to London in all these years. I actually came down here with Hugh a few times, you know.”

Richard feels a flutter near his midriff. He may find out a few things today that will be hard to hear - he’s prepared himself for that likelihood - but this is not one of them. “Did you? You took trips together?”

The hopeful lilt in his voice will not be disguised, and Johnnie nods.

“Oh yes, whenever we could. When Hugh was in between jobs, he would occasionally accompany me on assignments, but we’d also spend leisure time at the seaside, for example, or here. Easier to disappear in the big city. Part of its appeal, isn’t it?”

Richard nods. Already his heart feels lighter than it did a minute ago, and it makes it easier to ask his first tentative question. “Where’d you meet?”

Johnnie remains silent for a minute, then gives a soft little laugh. “Would you believe this? I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that story. Never had occasion to.”

This, too, rings familiar. Too many untold stories like theirs out there, hidden and kept under wraps and rarely brought to light. “If you’d rather not share -”

“Don’t be silly, lad, that’s what I’m here for. To give you the answers you seek and deserve. I just need a moment to get over how strange this all is.” Johnnie takes a deep breath and adjusts his hat. “We met at a wedding, which anyone with a sense for irony would appreciate. It was one of my first major assignments and I was determined to do well at it. I was young and didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but I had ambition pouring out of my ears. So I arrived there with my professional goggles on, y’know, all business. Still, I noticed your uncle. He was the type you couldn’t help but notice, but as I said, I was there to do a job. He was too, but that didn’t stop him from trying to distract me from mine.” He smiles at the memory, and Richard follows suit.

“What kind of job?” Knowing Uncle Hugh, it could have been anything.

“Catering. Pouring drinks, carrying morsels of food around, things like that. He made sure I didn’t go hungry, is all I can say. Kept offering me snacks, champagne even, asking me questions about the camera, about my work. Drove me a bit batty, to tell you the truth. Looking back on it now, it seems so obvious what he was doing, but at the time… I just couldn’t believe it was what it looked like. I’m old now, and no one pays an old man much attention of that sort, but I wasn’t much to look at when I was younger either, and I never thought someone like Hugh would be interested. Got a bit snappish with him, as I recall, because I thought he was taking the piss.”

Richard realises he has a grin on his face. “When was this? How old were you?”

“I was twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Something like that. Your uncle was a year younger. Anyroad, after I told him off, he took it down a notch, but don’t think I was rid of him. He stuck around, and we finally got to talking, y’know, a proper conversation. He made me laugh, I wish I could remember how exactly but it doesn’t matter for the purpose of the story. The point is, the more we spoke the more I realised he wasn't just a handsome face. He intrigued me, and I didn't quite know how to deal with it, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He just seemed happy to be there and have my attention, even when he was told off for slacking on the job. That’s where we were different, see - Hugh just let a reprimand like that roll off his back. Not that he didn’t have work ethic, but…”

“No, I get what you mean.” Richard smiles wistfully - Johnnie’s words paint a vivid scene in his mind and he is grateful and humbled for these deeply personal memories being so willingly shared, but why, why did he never have these conversations with his uncle when he had the chance? Perhaps Uncle Hugh had wanted to keep a lid on the past for whatever private reason, but there is no way to know for certain whether he did or didn’t, because Richard never directly asked those questions. And that is on him.

“Anyroad,” Johnnie continues, “that’s when Hugh casually informed me he was due for a break soon, and made sure to mention where he would be spending it. I’m ashamed to say the penny hadn’t really dropped for me until that moment. In my defense, I can only reiterate that it was the first time someone of Hugh’s caliber paid attention to me, and I didn’t think I had much to offer that he might want.” He pauses a moment and glances in Richard’s direction. “You’re a grown man, Mr. Ellis, I think I needn’t go into detail about what happened next. Even forty years down the road, that’s something I’d like to keep to myself.”

Richard nods earnestly. “Trust me, I wouldn’t expect you to share anything you don’t feel comfortable sharing. I’m very conscious of the fact that I’m prying in very personal business.”  
  
“You’re hardly prying, my boy, but you’re right about it being personal. I think it's doing me good to talk about it, though. It makes me feel young and useful, and there isn’t a greater blessing.”

They are both silent for a minute. Behind them, a young family is passing by on foot, the children’s tittering voices slowly fading until they are out of earshot. Richard resumes, “So... that's how it started, then?”

“Yes... and no. It was a bit more complicated than that, as it often is for men like us.” Johnnie fiddles with the brim of his hat again. “When we parted ways that day, I assumed that’d be it, y’know, just a casual thing that wouldn’t be repeated. But in the months that followed, we kept running into one another, at jobs, at the pub, all sorts of places. I once accused him of stalking me, y’know, just to tease, but he took it quite seriously. Swore to me that wasn’t the case. Anyroad, I was starting to have to admit that it wasn’t just a casual attraction, or a fling. Took me a long time to let myself feel those feelings, and even longer to trust Hugh with them, but he was wondrously patient. I suppose you could say he wore me down with kindness.”

Johnnie’s voice cracks slightly on those last words and he wipes at his eyes, taking a minute to collect himself. Richard, much as he would like to reach out and offer a comforting touch, instead simply waits discreetly, balking at the hurdle of physically touching a man in public, even if they could be father and son.

“I’m sorry,” Johnnie mutters, composing himself. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, not in front of you. It’s embarrassing.”

“Not at all, I assure you.” Richard hesitates briefly. “Am I overstepping if I say that… I am relieved, in a way?”

“Relieved?” Johnnie gives a final sniffle and turns to face him with red-rimmed eyes. “Why, lad?”

“I…” Richard has to swallow back some lump himself before he can continue. “I suppose it’s a relief that regardless of whatever may have caused your paths to diverge, you did care about him at one point. That’s all I hoped to hear, frankly - that someone cared about him.”

“Be reassured, then, Mr. Ellis. I cared about him, as did many other people, yourself included.”

“Please, call me Richard. Or Dick, whichever you prefer.”

“I suppose that’s fair, given that I asked you to use my first name as well, and given the personal nature of this conversation. But I don’t normally get so familiar at a first meeting.”

Richard smiles. “It isn’t our first meeting, though, is it?”

“No.” Johnnie smiles as well, and his shoulders drop an inch as some tension drains away. “No, I met you and your mother that one time at Hugh’s house, although I don’t suppose you’ll remember that day at all.” Richard shakes his head regretfully. “A lovely woman, your mother, I thought. How is she doing?”

“She is doing very well,” Richard replies. “Although the loss of Uncle Hugh was an incredible blow. They always stayed close, even after Uncle Hugh moved to the country and they didn’t see each other as often. They wrote almost every day, I think, right up till the end. As for myself, I tried to visit him whenever I could, but I don’t get to leave London very often on my own time. One of my great regrets, not being there when he passed.”

Johnnie nods slowly. “Was anyone?”

His voice sounds gravelly as he asks, almost as if he's dragging the words up his throat, terrified of what the answer might be.

“Mum was. Kept vigil by his bed day and night.”

“Thank God for that.” Johnnie bows his head, the words leaving his mouth like a sigh. “The thought of Hugh passing alone… it’s kept me awake at night these last few weeks, lad, I won’t lie. Wouldn’t’ve been right, given the man that he was. He lit up like a Christmas tree in company. Me, I’m more of a homebody, but a quiet night in wasn’t your uncle’s idea of a good time. So we’d either go out or have people over. He loved to entertain, Hugh did, and I’ve rarely seen a better host.” He looks up suddenly, flicking guilty eyes up at Richard. “My apologies, I’m rambling. You shouldn’t torment yourself over not being there, lad. That’s life sometimes, and I’m sure Hugh was madly proud of what you’ve achieved. Valet to the King, that isn’t exactly small potatoes.”

“Second valet,” Richard clarifies. He’s not always this modest about his credentials, but this is not a moment for boasting. “I hope he was proud, as you say. I - I think he was.” His voice cracks unexpectedly, and Johnnie does what he dared not earlier - touches his shoulder and squeezes it gently, his eyes steady on Richard’s face. How odd, to sit here in this moment of shared grief with a man he’s never met before today, and yet how oddly comforting and right it feels. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and Johnnie smiles warmly through his own tears.

“Don’t mention it, lad. It does me good to see how much you loved him. Warms my heart.” He squeezes one more time and then takes his hand away. “Well, now that we’re both blubbering, how about I show you some photos from my own private collection that I brought? Cheer us both up a bit, eh?”

He clicks open his attache case and takes from it a yellowed album, which he places in Richard’s hands. Taken off-guard somewhat by the offering, Richard opens it to the first page and gasps - there’s a picture there he’s never seen before and it shows Uncle Hugh as a young man, grinning broadly into the camera, his hair wind-swept and messy. He is standing on a cliff overlooking the sea, hands tucked into the pockets of his windbreaker. The scribbled caption underneath the photograph reads, _Llandudno, Wales - 1891._

He turns over the page and it continues - pictures of various coastal landscapes with or without his uncle in them, a promenade, a Victorian pier jutting out into the sea. There is the odd photograph featuring Johnnie as well, but it is clear that he was usually the one operating the camera. Richard turns the page again, and again, scanning the images with increasing amazement, the captions written in what he assumes is Johnnie’s hand.

_Bangor. Caernarfon. Snowdonia. Hugh & seabass (tasty!). Christmas 1891. London. New Year’s. Edinburgh. Glasgow. April, Lake District. Summer ‘92. Blackpool, North Pier. Fish and chips! October... _

“I can’t believe this,” Richard whispers as he flips the pages, unable to take his eyes away. “There are so many. You took so many trips.”

“Perk of the job,” Johnnie says, “but yeah, I’d say we made the most of it. You didn’t know your uncle like this, I’ll wager.”

“It’s incredible… I’m floored.” Richard shakes his head, his attention captured by a rare photo of Hugh and Johnnie together, posing with two other men. “Who are they?”

“Friends of ours… also a couple.” Richard looks up in surprise, and Johnnie smiles sheepishly. “We got together for New Year’s that time and had rather a wild night, as I recall. One of the few times in my life I got very, very drunk. Hugh thought it amusing, but I spent most of the next morning with my head in a bucket and didn’t really see the entertainment value in that.” He chuckles, but there’s a wistfulness in his eye as he studies the picture. “Alec and Scotty… I wonder what became of them.”

“How long were you together?” Richard asks. He doesn’t really know what answer to expect, but the answer he gets knocks the wind out of him for a second.

“Seven years.”

Seven years. _Seven._

“And my mother saw you only once,” he says softly. His mind can’t grasp it.

“By accident, as it happens.” Johnnie’s mouth twitches. “I happened to be there that day and Hugh forgot he’d arranged for his sister to come by. A bit of a surprise when she appeared on the doorstep with you on her arm, but Hugh just rolled with the punches. Introduced me as a friend, of course, but I could tell even then that she wasn’t fooled. We went into the garden, had cold lemonade, laughed about your antics. It was a lovely afternoon, actually, but it was all very impromptu.”

Richard smiles, but at the same time he also appears to be crying again, though why he couldn’t exactly say. “She remembers you,” he says hoarsely. “She remembers that day very well. I think she’d love to meet you again, one day, and see these. It would mean so much to her.”

“It’d be my pleasure, lad.” Johnnie nods at the album. “It’s accompanied me on all my travels, and I’d like to keep it while I live, but I’ll have it recorded in my last will and testament that it finds its way to you after my death, along with Hugh’s letters to me.”

“Mr. Shaw… Johnnie, I really couldn’t -”

“Please,” Johnnie says, unexpectedly earnestly. “You’d be doing an old man a favour. It’ll be in good hands with you, won’t it?” Richard nods, speechless. “Then it’s settled. And at any rate, it’ll be awhile before I’m ready to shuffle off this mortal coil. I’m blessed with excellent health.”

“That is quite a relief.” The last photograph in the album is dated early 1896 - the last pages are empty. Richard doesn’t want to ask this next question, but he knows he must. “Why did it end? If that’s not too personal a question.”

“It is,” Johnnie replies, turning to look at the Thames. “It is personal,” he adds, to himself almost, his voice trailing off on the last syllable. For a few moments, there are only the sounds of the city around them, but they're faint, muffled, as if struggling to pierce this fragile bubble of sharing and remembrance they've wrapped themselves in. There was a light breeze earlier but now it's stopped, as if out of respect almost, and even the seagulls always rivalling for food seem to have stopped their bickering.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have -”

“No, no, don't apologise, there's no need. I don’t blame you for asking, for wanting to know. Only… I need a minute to sort my thoughts out and give you the answer you deserve.” Johnnie sighs and strokes his beard. “There’s a bitter irony in it all. As a young man, I had the ambition to take my photography far but not the confidence. Hugh gave me that confidence, somehow convinced me I wasn’t just chasing a pipe dream but actually had some skill to back it up. Gave me the bollocks to want to give it a try in America. But when I asked him to come with me, he -”

He trails off, and Richard closes the album slowly, with a heavy heart. He can guess how this continues.

“It’s funny,” Johnnie says, but he isn’t smiling. His eyes are staring into the distance. “I turned Hugh down several times in the beginning, all the way back when he was doing his utmost to convince me we belonged together. Not because I didn’t care about him, but… God, I was terrified. Terrified of not being good enough, of fucking things up. And guess what? After a seven year grace period, I did. I fucked everything up. All he ever did was treat me well, and I thanked him by buggering off to America.”

The last words ring out a little too loudly, and Johnnie pauses a moment, both of them staring straight ahead, towards the river and the south back on the other side of it.

“I don’t know,” Johnnie continues more softly. “Looking back, I sometimes wonder if subconsciously I sabotaged our relationship on purpose. That my head was getting too big and Yorkshire too small, that I wanted to experience America as a free man. But on the other hand, I always thought Hugh was the more footloose of the two of us - a drifter, he called himself, or a dumb drifter when he wanted to rattle me a bit. But in the end, it turned out he was more rooted in Yorkshire than either one of us had realised. I asked him to at least give it a try, but in hindsight I probably could have tried a little harder to convince him. It's like a part of me was daring him to reject me. And he did. He couldn’t leave everything he loved behind, he said. He didn’t name names, but I knew he meant your mother. Meant you.”

The words are like a punch to Richard’s gut, and he looks away promptly to conceal their impact. There is no happiness in learning this, no comfort in knowing that Uncle Hugh may have chosen a different life if not for him, a life that may have ended differently, too. Once again, he feels the older man reaching out, this time touching his knee.

“Please, don’t think I harbour any resentment over this, because I don’t. Never did. And your uncle wouldn’t, either. He wasn’t that type of man. Look at me, lad.”

Silently choking on tears, Richard does. Johnnie squeezes his knee.

“Hugh wouldn’t want you to feel guilt over this,” he goes on. “He was an adult with his own priorities and made his own choices. He made one and he stuck by it, and I’m sure he stood by it till the end. I have no doubt that he was happy to be around to see what a good man you turned out to be, little Dickie Ellis.”

Even through the haze of his tears, Richard can see Johnnie smiling at him reassuringly. “But if he had gone to America with you, he might've -”

“He might've been homesick and miserable, and it would have been my fault. Don't torment yourself over this a second longer, lad. We had a good go of it for seven years, but sometimes even a good thing doesn't last. We both went on to other good things. My only deep regret is that I neglected to get in touch after I returned to England. I would've liked to meet and speak with him, one old man to another. I thought about it, but I delayed for silly reasons. That'll be my cross to bear, I suppose. But it's a comfort to tell you the things I'd have liked to tell him. Makes me feel young again, like I said. It's almost as if I'm sitting here with Hugh as I knew him thirty years ago.”

“Yeah, I... I've been told I resemble him.” Richard's mouth twitches. “Some would say in one way too many.”

“Sod those people.” Johnnie sits up straight, joining both hands on the knob of his cane. “And I hope that's what your uncle told you, when you needed to hear it as a young lad. I hope he was there to tell you what's what.”

Richard nods. Here he is, a grown man, blubbering in public, in the presence of a stranger. “He was. He taught me so much.”

“Well, there you have it, then. I'm sure he was doubly glad he was able to be there for you during that time. He couldn't have done that from America, you know. Not consistently.”

“But -”

“He made the right decision. I know he did - you just confirmed it for me.” Johnnie smiles gently, and it is as if some invisible burden slips from his shoulders at long last. He takes a deep breath and seems to collect himself. “Now dry those tears, lad - there's something I want to show you, and you don't want to risk ruining it.”

Richard duly takes out his handkerchief to sort himself out. He feels utterly drained by the conversation, heart sore and head aching, and he hopes that whatever Johnnie is extracting from his case won't make things too much worse.

“I have to tell you, it isn't often I meet a model so reluctant to be photographed, but I'm quite satisfied with the end result,” Johnnie says, in a tone of voice Richard would almost be tempted to describe as _giddy._ Confused, he takes the photograph Johnnie gives him, at first glance a studio portrait as so many exist, with the subject seated on a chair, surrounded by carefully arranged objects against a generic backdrop of decorative wallpaper and drapes. And then he gets a jolt.

“As I said, Mr. Barrow was not easily convinced to sit in front of my lens,” Johnnie continues semi-casually, as he starts preparing a pipe and pretends not to pay attention to Richard's reaction to the image of Thomas, captured in a familiar moment - lighting a cigarette, his eyes staring straight into the camera as if he's just raised them at the sound of the shutter. He is sucking in his cheeks that way he does, and the camera has immortalised perfectly the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the slight clenching of the jaw that occurs when he doesn't feel fully comfortable in his environment. Richard stares - no, gawks, in a way he suspects isn't very discreet at all.

Eventually he stutters, “How... how'd you...?”

“It was hard work to get Mr. Barrow to look like he wasn't being held against his will and tortured. A handsome lad, not a natural poser.” Johnnie chuckles and puffs away at his pipe thoughtfully as he recalls, “At one point I asked him point blank what it would take for him to relax a little. His answer was, and I quote, ‘A cigarette would really fucking help.’”

Richard blinks - his vision is misting up again, he finds, but at the same time he’s grinning like a loon at the precious image he’s holding between shaking fingers. What a fool in love he is.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, carefully touching Thomas’s face with the tip of his finger - almost like he did that first time outside the police station, he realises. “That sounds like Thomas all right.”

“I think Mr. Barrow believed I would let him smoke the cigarette before continuing with our session.” Johnnie grins around his pipe. “It’s possible I allowed him to believe that. In truth, I was just waiting for a natural pose, a moment of authenticity I could capture. It’s not how I usually work, taking candids, but it works well with some of the more camera-shy subjects. It seems to have done the trick in this case.”

“It’s amazing,” Richard whispers, and Johnnie hums contentedly. “It truly is, but… does he know about this? Does he know you’re showing it to me?”

“I’m doing more than showing, lad. I’m giving it to you. And yes, he knows.”

Richard daren’t believe his ears. “He agreed to it? Unreservedly?”

“Didn’t at first - did after I had a chat with him.”

“Johnnie…”

“He wants you to have it, lad. Swear to God, he does. You didn’t have one yet, did you?”

Richard shakes his head and resumes staring at the photograph with a sinking feeling. “No, and I’m not sure I can keep this one, much as I would like to.”

“Yes, you can. Stick it in a family album, write ‘cousin Reggie’ in the margin. Even if anyone were to take the trouble of going through your things, they’d never be any the wiser.”

Hope flutters in Richard’s chest. Such a simple trick, why hadn’t he thought of that? “How can I ever thank you -”

“Don’t mention it, Dickie Ellis.” He speaks almost gruffly. He looks around to ensure no one is nearby. “A man ought to have a picture of his sweetheart, doesn’t he? Especially when it’s been… how long?”

“A year this month,” Richard softly replies. He’d been proud of the upcoming milestone before - now, it seems to have lost some of its lustre.

“That’s splendid,” Johnnie says earnestly, “how will you celebrate?”

Richard glances at him uncertainly, his heart sinking a little. “We won’t be together that day, if that’s what you’re asking. Letters, maybe a phone call. I’ve considered getting a gift, but… I’m not sure Thomas wouldn’t find it silly. I doubt he cares about celebrating dates as much as I do.”

He instinctively touches his cufflinks and feels guilty - where are these cynical thoughts coming from? He knows they’re not true. 

“Do it,” Johnnie says. “Life is short, my boy, and people like us don’t get anything for free. You’ll never have a formal date, a piece of paper to sign and wave around for everyone to see. We have to get by without the acknowledgment, quietly. So for God’s sake, get the gift, commemorate the date. If you don’t, nobody else will.” He relights his pipe, puffing at it fanatically. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re wrong about Mr. Barrow. He didn’t strike me as indifferent, quite to the contrary - there’s a big warm heart beating in that breast, isn’t there, and it’s fit to burst. Like a volcano ready to erupt. Very intense young gentleman, like I said, and he obviously thinks the world of you.” 

For a moment Richard feels very small, and very stupid, and very alone. “You're right, of course. I don't know why I said such a thing. It's just that I…” 

_I miss him. I miss him so much, all the time._

He doesn’t say that last part out loud, though. For all that they just shared, voicing such a thought feels like a step too far, a vulnerability too great to admit even in this context. But Johnnie just hums sympathetically, as though Richard completed the sentence anyway.

“I know. It’s easy sometimes to let the fear do the talking, isn’t it? I know a thing or two about that, myself.” He reaches into his attache once more and pulls out a gift-wrapped package. “Here, I want you to have this, too. First anniversary gift.”

Richard protests, but Johnnie doesn’t give an inch on the issue, just sits there and quietly smokes. Occasionally, Richard gets a whiff of what could be an exclusive foreign tobacco. He eventually relents and opens the package. Inside is a new 35mm Leica camera. “Johnnie, no, this is too much. I can’t possibly -”

“Very exciting development, the 35mm,” Johnnie muses aloud. “One of several in my field happening right now. As a professional photographer, I’ll choose the heavy-duty equipment any day of the week, but as a tourist? I wish I’d had one of these back when Hugh and I took our trips - it would’ve made things so much easier.” He glances at Richard, who is speechless, stunned. “I hope you have no moral objections to owning a German brand, being a veteran of the Great War, but Leica is the best there is.”

Unable to contain his curiosity, Richard opens the box and takes out the apparatus carefully, holding it in both hands. “It’s so light.”

“That’s the beauty of it. Have you used one before?” Richard shakes his head. “Just look through there, point and snap. That’s all there is to it. I’ve taken the liberty of putting a film in, so give it a try, if you like.”

Richard lifts the camera to his eyes and looks into the viewfinder, turning slowly until he’s got the Thames in his sight, with the Tower visible in the distance. He moves his finger and presses the shutter-release button, feeling a strange surge of excitement at the resulting click.

“You see? Easy as that.” Johnnie gives him an encouraging nod. “How’s that feel?”

“Feels good,” Richard admits. “But truly, I can’t -”

“I want you to have it. And more importantly still, I want you to _use_ it.” Something in Johnnie’s tone changes; he speaks with more emphasis, more urgency, and it makes the last of Richard’s objections die in his throat. “Start making some memories, lad. One day you’ll be glad you did. Take it from someone who knows what it’s like to live mostly in the past.” A sad look crosses his face, but it’s there and gone again. “And if privacy is a concern, send me your films and I’ll develop them. 100% discreet service for a friendly price.”

It’s all Richard can do not to start crying again right then and there. It’s all too much - he feels raw, like an exposed nerve, yet at the same time deeply grateful for this man entering his life. It’s almost as if through him, Uncle Hugh is extending a hand to him from Heaven, childish though that thought may be, and taking away some of the grief that’s been eating at him all this time, offering some forgiveness for his sins. Helping him breathe again. He carefully places the camera back in the box. “How can I ever repay you for your kindness -”

“My boy, you’ve already given me the best gift I could have asked for - peace of mind.” He puts out his pipe and empties it before tucking it away. “Come, I think I’d like that cup of tea now, and perhaps a little sightseeing after, if you have the time to spare. I can show you some of the sights Hugh and I visited, if you’d like. I didn’t know what to expect, seeing London again after all these years, but it’s bringing back memories. If you don’t mind indulging an old man a bit longer, I’d like to share them with you.”

They continue along the Thames and stop at a nearby tearoom for some much needed refreshment. Nourished and rested, they then spend an hour or two wandering the streets of London and visiting the sights with the sole exception of Buckingham Palace, which is given a wide berth. With Johnnie doing most of the talking - and occasionally apologising for his rambling, only to spot something new that jogs his memory and launching into another story - time passes quickly, too quickly for Richard’s liking. Johnnie is an endless source of anecdotes, and sweet memories, and tidbits of sagacity, and Richard finds himself basking in such engaging company. He’s always taken in pride in his knowledge of all the nooks and crannies of the City, but seeing it through the old man’s eyes feels like discovering it anew, like a man falling in love all over again with his wife of twenty years.

Almost like that, at any rate.

Soon, all too soon, it is time for Johnnie to catch his train back home, and although Richard offers to accompany him to the station, the older man graciously declines. They part at the corner of Cranbourn Street and Charing Cross Road with a long handshake, looking into each other’s eyes. Johnnie has a wistful smile on his face. “Take care of yourself, lad. And practise with that camera.”

Richard promises him that he will, though when he’ll have the opportunity is anyone’s guess. He can take it with him on his lunch walks, he supposes. “Can I write to you?”

“I’d be devastated if you didn’t,” Johnnie replies, not a trace of facetiousness. “And be sure to send me your Mum’s address, I’d like to send her my condolences.”

“I will.” Another squeeze of the hands, a final smile, and they go their separate ways. 

Johnnie’s visit turns out to be both a blessing and a curse. It’s a relief to no longer have a corner of his mind constantly occupied with the question of whether or not they’ll find him, to no longer have that worry weighing on him, but at the same time, now that it’s gone he almost misses it. The emptiness left in its place makes him feel adrift, purposeless. He tries to fill it with the demands of the job, and with the search of a suitable gift for Thomas, but when the hour is late and the sky is dark, the sense of futility returns. The colour drains from his world, leaving London a picture postcard in muted shades of grey. When he walks down The Mall, or stands on Trafalgar Square looking at the people passing by, hurrying, talking, laughing, kissing, shopping, leading their lives - try as he might, he can’t feel like he’s part of it all. He feels like he is performing in a play, and has been given a different script from everyone else.

It’s not _all_ misery, though, especially on the nights when he takes out the Leica, cradling it in his hands and fiddling idly with the dials, and manages to lose himself in fantasising about all the places he could one day immortalise with it. He thinks of Johnnie and Uncle Hugh’s album documenting all their travels, and dreams of the one he’d like to build with Thomas. He pictures him standing on a beach in Wales, on a boat traversing a Norwegian fjord, or gazing at the Statue of Liberty. There is no geographical limit to where his mind travels in moments like these, and silly though these daydreams may be, they provide a brief escape, a little bit of solace. Until he remembers those final few pages in the album, glaring in their emptiness, and Johnnie’s sobering words - _sometimes even a good thing doesn't last_ \- and he wants to cry.

He doesn’t know what he’d do without the letters. Almost every day, there is at least one - from Thomas, his Mum, Theo and now Johnnie - and they are a lifeline in the truest sense of the word. Much of his free time is spent writing replies, and he walks down to the post office daily, sometimes even twice, to post them. He is spending a small fortune on stamps and writing supplies, which he does gladly, and on the bottles of alcohol he’s taken to smuggling into his room - an emergency supply for when he can’t find the time to slip away to Soho for a couple hours. Even Miller doesn’t know about this, and that’s how it needs to stay - ascetic Alan wouldn’t approve of such indulgence. But as long as he makes sure his breath is fresh in the morning, Richard reckons he’s safe.

He prays fanatically, both at night and at Mass, and reads in The Holy Bible when he wants to cleanse himself of impure thoughts and urges, but it’s a vicious cycle that just ends up dragging him down even more: he feels ashamed of those thoughts, then feels ashamed for being ashamed. At the farmhouse Thomas had asked him about his faith, baring his deepest, most private doubts with surgeon-like precision. _How do you reconcile that with the fact that the Church preaches damnation for people like us?_ he’d asked, and for a moment Richard had felt like a hare staring down the barrel of a rifle, caught in an open field.

 _I struggle with that every day,_ he’d stammered in response, but these days it’s hard to accept just how much truth there was in those words.

On the eve of the date that marks their anniversary, he gets a phone call from Timothy Bryce.

“I can’t talk very long,” is the first thing Thomas says to him, apologetic. “I just wanted to let you know I haven’t forgotten what day it is tomorrow, and to watch the morning post.”

“I always watch the morning post,” Richard replies. “And you should do the same, by the way.”

“I will.” A brief pause. “You sound odd - are you all right?”

For once, Richard doesn’t have it in him to respond as he normally does, instead speaking another, less harmful truth. “I’m happy to hear your voice, that’s all.”

“Better make the most of these minutes, then,” Thomas says with a mischievous lilt in his voice, but Richard can tell he hasn’t succeeded in reassuring him. When they finish their conversation and break the connection, the distance between the Palace and the Abbey feels more vast than it ever did.

The next morning, there is a letter in the post and a flat package. As it turns out, they’ve each sent each other a book as an anniversary gift, but the difference in choice could not be starker - Richard’s _Leaves of Grass_ versus Thomas’s _Winnie-the-Pooh_.

 _Please don’t laugh,_ reads the postscript of Thomas’s letter. _The children in the nursery love this book, and George asked me to read it to him the other day when Nanny was busy. It made me smile, and I thought maybe it would do the same for you._

And, well… it does. Richard takes to bringing the book with him on his daily lunch walks, although he leaves the dust jacket at home for fear of damaging it. Sitting on his favourite bench overlooking the lake and Duck Island Cottage, in the shade of the plane trees, he gets lost in the whimsical world created by A.A. Milne and the charming illustrations that bring the stories to life even more.

“I’m reading that to my little boy at the moment,” offers a lady who shares his bench one afternoon. “Do you have children?”

In the past, he’s had no trouble answering that question dishonestly, but he is so tired of the deception. Of being put into situations where deceiving is the only sensible course of action. “No, Madam, I don’t.”

She looks offended by his sharp tone and gets up a few minutes later, not greeting him as she leaves. The exchange leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and takes the enjoyment out of the reading, so he puts the book away and pretends to take in the view as he tries to work out why he just didn’t tell that lady about the fictional family he made up for occasions like these - the beautiful doting wife of thirteen years, the three children, two girls and one boy, the oldest already turning eleven this August… or was it September? He used to have these kids’ names, birthdays and personalities clearly crystallised in his mind, but he can't be bothered to remember any of that information right now. Whatever good mood he'd managed to get into has evaporated, and he wonders if he shouldn't just get back to the Palace early. He still has a couple jackets to mend and boots to polish for His Majesty’s upcoming trip to the Isle of Wight. 

But he has a right to these breaks, and those damn boots aren’t going anywhere. He picks up the book again and opens it to the story he’d been reading, of how Eeyore lost his tail (and Pooh found it), picturing Thomas reading to Master George and the lad listening, rapt, occasionally giggling at his favourite passages and begging for “Just one more story, Mr. Barrow, just one more.”

The image is a vivid one in his mind, and it makes him smile.

_“And if anyone knows anything about anything,” said Bear to himself, “it's Owl who knows something about something,” he said, “or my name's not Winnie-the-Pooh,” he said. “Which it is,” he added. “So there you are.”_

“May I sit here?” asks a voice a little to the right of him, and he glances up, annoyed at this new intrusion. Used to be he was always up for a chat, with anyone - however, these days he would just rather be left in peace when he goes out in public. There are too many people poking their noses in his personal business as it is. But he can’t exactly take that out on an unsuspecting passerby, can he?

“Of course, be my -” The rest of his reply dies in his throat when he gets a proper look at the bloke’s face, and he blinks, then stares incredulously as his stomach does a somersault.

“Thank you - most kind.” Thomas sits, and for a long, silent minute keeps his gaze trained on the lake in front of them, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight reflecting off of the surface of the water. Richard can’t stop staring at him, scared that he’ll vanish, like a mirage in the desert, if he looks away even for a moment. But damn it, he _can’t_. Even if it would be better to do so. Even if he probably should.

“You were right, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas eventually continues. He speaks casually, but there is a slight tremor in his voice that Richard does catch. “It really is quite a view.”


	10. Richard (cont'd)

He’d forgotten how much he likes looking at that man’s face. 

Well, not _forgotten_ , exactly - God, how could he ever forget - but now that he’s staring straight at the real thing, he realises just how inadequate his memories were, and that the photograph Johnnie gave him, however precious, is only a substitute. Even the view Thomas was just now praising - one Richard had hoped, sentimentally, to share with him one day - pales in comparison. That damn lake isn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Thomas, on the other hand...

“Are you going to say something, Mr. Ellis?”

The question jolts Richard out his stupor. “How,” he begins, and Thomas raises a questioning eyebrow. He has a crooked smile on his face, but somewhere behind his eyes lurks something resembling uncertainty, as if he hadn’t been entirely sure of what Richard’s response would be when he appeared. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I took an educated guess.” Thomas turns his gaze away to take in the view once more, but even in profile he looks pleased with himself. “The bench by the waterside overlooking the lake, the cottage - you described it all in detail in your letters. Walking up to Buckingham Palace and ringing the doorbell wasn’t exactly an option, but it’s a beautiful day and I banked on you being a creature of habit, so by my reckoning I had a good shot at finding you here around this time.” He pulls at the brim of his hat, clears his throat, and slowly it begins to dawn on Richard that no, this man isn’t going to disappear into thin air anytime soon, he is here and he is real and it’s Thomas, _his_ Thomas, and how Richard is going to sit here calmly and not bruise his lips with kisses is anyone’s guess.

“But - but why are you here? What are you doing in London, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” He hates how his voice cracks slightly on that last question, letting just a sliver of hurt seep in. His mind can’t even compute that Thomas is sitting right next to him in the flesh, let alone why he’d keep something like that a secret, and for a second, Thomas looks guilty.

“It wasn’t a certainty I was coming until yesterday,” he says, “and I didn’t know if and when I’d be able to get away. I didn’t want to get your hopes up and risk disappointing you if it fell through at the last minute. And, granted, I rather enjoyed the idea of surprising you.” He clears his throat again. “Are you pleased?”

Richard wants to shake himself for reacting so inadequately, for giving Thomas even the slightest reason to doubt his feelings. “Of course, Thom- Mr. Barrow. Of course I’m pleased. More than I can say. I just - God, give a bloke a second to recover.” He laughs, a liberating sensation, and he could swear he sees Thomas relaxing some. “Where are you staying? _Are_ you even staying? When…”

He trails off with a bewildered shake of the head, forcing calm before he unleashes a veritable barrage of questions on poor Thomas. There are too many, not all of them appropriate for the moment.

“Grantham House.” Thomas plants a cigarette between his lips and lights it with a flick of his lighter. “Crawleys’re selling it.”

“Selling the house?” Thomas hums an affirmative. “That’s... quite a big decision, isn’t it?”

“A few years in the making. His Lordship held firm for a while, but in the end Lady Mary and the chauffeur wore him down. Lady Mary is here now to meet with estate agents and the like, although I suspect she’ll use the opportunity to make a few social calls. Talbot’s in America on automobile business.”

“That’s it? Just you and the Lady Mary?”

“And Anna, her lady’s maid.”

“Doesn’t she have a young child to care for?”

“You don’t expect Lady Mary to care about that, do you?” Thomas grins. “The boy is well looked after in the nursery.”

Richard sits quietly for a moment, absorbing everything Thomas just told him. “The lady’s maid I can understand. Why’d she bring you?”

Thomas shrugs. “Why does one need a butler? To serve drinks, I suppose. To stand around and be a status symbol when there’s company over. They may be selling the London house but don’t let the neighbours think it’s for a lack of money.” 

“And she's already let you slip the chain? You won’t be missed, or get into trouble for this?”

Thomas just looks at him for a moment, sucking languidly on the cigarette. It's a lovely sight and Richard has to make a conscious effort not to let his jaw drop, because they're right _in the middle of St. James's Park_ , damn it. 

“Why, Mr. Ellis, if I didn't know you better I'd almost think you were telling me to go back where I came from.”

But his voice is light and relaxed as he says it, no sign of insecurity lurking beneath the surface this time. This is Thomas playfully teasing, _flirting,_ and Richard feels a pull deep in his gut, a burst of heat behind his navel.

“Thomas, for God's sake, are you trying to seduce me in front of those poor ducks?”

_And using just your words to do it, too. Words and that fucking cigarette you’re smoking, in that way you damn well know makes me imagine those lips wrapped around -_

“Depends,” Thomas drawls, exhaling smoke. “Is it working?”

Apparently they just can’t help themselves when they’re near each other, even after being separated for five months. _Especially_ then.

“You bloody well know it is.”

They both grin, elated, like children sharing a secret. Sometime in these past few minutes, the park and everything in it seems to have become more saturated with colour, thrust into starker contrast, and Richard feels like the world suddenly makes sense again just because he’s with Thomas, and he doesn’t have to be anything but himself.

“So… good surprise?” Thomas checks, for good measure. He doesn’t truly need the reassurance this time, this is just blatant fishing for more compliments about this great surprise he’s prepared so cleverly, but Richard is willing to indulge him there as well.

“Very good surprise.” 

Let no one say that Richard Ellis can't be succinct and understated when he needs to be. He’d gush - he’d like to - but he’s worried that once he starts, he won’t be able to stop. Judging by Thomas’s smile, it’s all good regardless.

“Interesting book you’re reading there,” Thomas remarks, a teasing glint in his eye. He takes a leisurely drag. “You were so engrossed in it earlier that I almost daredn’t disturb you.”

“What can I say, Mr. Barrow, it's a thoughtful gift from someone very good at knowing what I like - sometimes better than myself.”

Thomas grins self-consciously. “Quite the discrepancy, though, wasn’t it? _Leaves of Grass_? I gave it a good shot, Mr. Ellis, but I’m not sure I have a mind for poetry. Too dumb, probably.”

“Don’t say that. Poetry is best absorbed when listened to. Perhaps you just need someone to read it to you.”

“Perhaps I do.” Thomas stares into his eyes a few beats longer before lowering his gaze, flicking at a bit of ash on his pant leg. He licks at his thumb and rubs it at the spot absentmindedly. Richard’s hand twitches - the valet in him suddenly emerging, horrified - and for a second he finds himself struggling with the silly impulse to reach out and make him stop before he makes the smudge worse, but he resists and eventually the urge recedes.

“How long are you staying?”

He ought to be congratulated, he thinks, for waiting to ask that as long as he has. His heart is going a hundred miles a minute as he waits for the answer, still half convinced Thomas will get up any moment, tip his hat and walk out of his sight as abruptly as he walked into it, leaving him here, yearning.

“Who knows?” Thomas shrugs, astonishingly casual, although that could just be a façade. “You don’t think the Lady Mary has seen fit to share that information with me, do you? ‘A few days’, I heard her say to Branson, so that could be two, or five, or any number, really. We’ll have to wait and see what Mercurial Mary decides.”

A few days. Richard breathes out slowly, relief and happiness flooding his chest. _A few days._

“That… that seems almost too good to be true. I'm so glad.”

He recovered his wits just in time to lose them again, apparently. It's lucky Thomas seems charmed by his lack of eloquence rather than put off, judging from the spark that dances in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, throwing the cigarette to the ground and putting it out with his foot. “And since there's no time like the present - how do you rate your chances of eluding the royal watchdogs for a couple hours?”

_... oh._

“You mean… now?” Richard asks. Thomas nods, and there is a powerful tug in Richard's belly at what Thomas is proposing.

“Now, in an hour, in two hours…” Thomas quirks his mouth, in a way that makes Richard's stomach flip. “As soon as you can manage it, I guess is what I'm asking.”

“Well, I - I can't go out to lunch and not come back. I'd have to look in first, have a chat with Miller. He's got me on boot polishing duty in preparation for His Majesty's upcoming trip to Wight. They're leaving in two days.”

“They?” Thomas arches an eyebrow. “You're not going?”

Richard shakes his head, matching the slow grin crawling across Thomas's face. “Traveling light this time. Small delegation.” Up until this point, he'd been miffed about being excluded, but now...

“Well, that suits our needs just fine, doesn't it?”

No man should look this good when gloating. Richard nods.

“Where - where do you suggest -”

“Well, not at Grantham House, obviously. I'd hoped you would know of a place. You're the sheriff in this town, after all.”

Had the circumstances been different, Richard might've spared a minute to wonder if Thomas is implying he has experience with this sort of thing - which, admittedly, he does - and judging him for it. As it is, his brain seems less and less capable of caring about such trivial worries with every passing minute. He names a place, an address. Thomas nods, but doesn't write it down. Of course he doesn't. Nor does he ask when Richard was last there.

“Discreet?” he asks. “Affordable?”

“I wouldn't suggest anything less than discreet,” Richard replies. “And don't worry about the cost.”

“Mr. Ellis…”

“I insist, Mr. Bryce.”

Thomas narrows his eyes to slits to show his disapproval, but doesn't speak. Richard is relieved - these negotiations are awkward enough as it is, a new situation they are learning to navigate. Thomas looks away, towards the lake.

“What'll I call you when we're there?”

Richard briefly hesitates, something about the pragmatic way they're discussing this sitting bitter on his tongue, and he tries to disguise his discomfort with what he hopes is a rakish grin. “Mr. Walter Blake, bank clerk. At your service.”

“Blake, huh?” Thomas queries, and Richard clears his throat. The alias isn't a new one, but it's almost poetic, in a way, that the man who left him a husk of his normal self all those years ago should now in some small way help him arrange a clandestine meeting with -

With a man who is his superior in every way.

“Look, if it bothers you -”

“Oh, no, I see what you did there and I approve. A bank clerk, though... how middle class of you.”

“You'd be amazed at my bank clerk impersonations.”

“At this point I seriously doubt I'd be amazed by any tricks from your bag, Mr. Ellis, but I'll be happy to be proven wrong.”

They stand, and shake hands, and Richard gets a jolt at the contact, holding on perhaps a little longer than he would have thought prudent in any other case.

God, if he reacts like this to a simple handshake, he can only imagine what he's in for later, provided Miller doesn't make a fuss. The thought of begging is unpalatable, but Richard also knows he'd grit his teeth and choose Thomas over his principles any day of the week, pride be damned.

“I'll - I'll try to make it quick,” he promises, cringing at how _eager_ he sounds.

“I'll wait, Mr. Ellis.” Thomas smiles. “I can't promise saintly patience, but I'll wait. Polish those boots to a high shine.”

“Where can I reach you while you're in London?”

“Grantham House, at St. James's Square. Telegrams work best.”

“All right. I'll let you know at what time I'll be able to meet you.”

“You do that.” Thomas takes a quick look around, checking, then slightly leans in, and for a fraction of a second the Earth stops turning as Richard recklessly wishes Thomas would throw sanity to the wind and kiss him right there and then, for all to see.

He doesn't, of course, but with his next words he still manages to leave Richard breathless.

“See you later, Dick.”

And then he goes, and all Richard can do for a few moments is stand there, rooted to the spot, watching the cadence of Thomas's shoulders, the inviting back of his neck, as he walks away. A part of him afraid to leave this tiny bubble of peace, in case the return to the real world will reveal that the past fifteen minutes have happened only in his head after all. 

It appears Thomas shares his concern, though, or somehow senses his worry, because when he's gone about thirty paces he stops, and turns to look back. As their eyes meet, Richard tips his hat at him, and in that instant his lingering doubts dissipate, like the memory of a nightmare fades at daybreak.

Once back at the Palace, he resists the urge to seek out Miller straight away, and instead heads back into the boot room to resume his polishing with renewed zeal, grateful for the fact that it's a mind-numbing enough task that he can let his thoughts run where they will without any consequences for the quality of the work.

Miller wouldn't be Miller, though, if he didn't walk in at some point with a flimsy excuse to check up on him, which is exactly what Richard was banking on. For once, Miller even has a compliment to spare for what he sees... sort of. “Not bad for a couple hours' work, Ellis. Haven't seen you look this lively in months, who lit a fire under you to cause such a turnaround?”

“I don’t know, perhaps it’s the prospect of your impending departure, Alan,” Richard retorts. “A little time without you looking over my shoulder every five minutes cannot but lift the spirits.”

“You didn’t have to resort to personal insults,” Miller snaps, and if Richard didn’t know him any better, he’d almost think he genuinely hurt his feelings.

Either way, best not risk ruffling his feathers.

“I do apologise, Alan. I will miss your witty repartee, make no mistake about that.”

“You think you’re so charming, don’t you,” Miller scoffs disdainfully. “You think you’re so bloody superior, strutting around like a stockbroker’s wife at Royal Ascot, when you’re nothing but a jumped-up Yorkie peasant.”

Richard grins; on some days, or perhaps most of them, Miller’s insults may have touched a nerve, but not today. “For all the pleasure you take in pointing out my flaws, though, you know you love me.”

“Piss off,” Miller snarls, and turns to leave the room. “Don’t know why I bother with you.”

“Oh, Alan, one last thing.” Richard knows he’s pushing his luck here, but it costs nothing to try. “I need to slip out for a couple hours later on, might I appeal to your kindness once again and ask that you tell whoever asks that you sent me on an errand?”

At this, Miller slowly turns back around, observing him keenly. “You’re asking for an awful lot of favours these days, Ellis, and offering very little in return. Even my goodwill has its limits, you know.”

“This'll be my last indiscretion for the foreseeable future.” An easy promise to make, since Miller won't be around for the ones he’s hoping to commit in the next few days. “You have my word.”

Miller sucks his teeth, regarding him for a few moments, considering his words. Richard stares back squarely, trying to keep as neutral an expression as possible. If Miller’s intention is to make him squirm, or beg, he’ll make him work for it.

“Suppose I do help you,” Miller finally muses, “will you at least do me the courtesy of telling me what I’m sticking my neck out for? And don’t insult me by saying you’re meeting your mother, because I won’t believe that any more than I did the last time.”

“You know as well as I do that naming names is very unwise, Alan. And forgive me for pointing it out, but you seem to take an unhealthy interest in my private affairs all of a sudden. I’ve always thought our relationship works best without personal business muddying things up, and I assumed you were of the same opinion.”

Miller makes a face as if he’s just swallowed acid. “There is no ‘relationship’ that warrants the name, Ellis. Fine, keep your precious secrets, if you think they’re so bloody interesting. But don’t think I’m not onto you, esteemed colleague. You’re not as subtle as you presume to be by a long shot.”

Here, for the first time, Richard does falter, but he recovers swiftly enough that he trusts Miller hasn’t cottoned on. “Tsk, Alan, it hurts me to see you're supportive only when it gives you the chance to annoy Lawton. Will you do it or not? I’d get down on the floor right now and grovel, if I thought you’d appreciate seeing me on my knees.”

“You want to know what I appreciate, finish polishing these and you’ll find out,” Miller drawls. “Less talk, more work, Ellis. When you’re done, you can go wherever it is you're going, I’ll spin a story for whoever bothers to ask, but don’t think I won’t remember this.”

Richard doesn't doubt that for a second, so he reckons it's better not to poke at this particular hornet’s nest any further. He murmurs a quick “Thanks”, making a show of picking up the shoe polish again, to which Miller just scoffs and finally leaves the room.

Once he is left in peace, his hands make quick work of the task, and when every last piece of royal footwear is shining as never before - he doesn’t want to boast, but he could probably take a razor and give himself a close shave using the reflection in the spurs of His Majesty’s riding boots - he quickly packs up and dispatches a telegram from the staff post office (although it’d probably be wiser to walk into Mayfair and choose the anonymity of a general post office, but knowing what is wise and acting accordingly are two different things, especially when under time pressure).

BARROW GRANTHAM HOUSE ST JAMESS SQUARE SW1Y

FLYING COOP SOON BE THERE 1600 SOLEMNLY SWEAR NOT TO BE LATE

He then goes up to his room to freshen up and change, spending longer than he probably should in front of the mirror and feeling silly for it. He applies a little cologne, not too much, slicks and combs his hair, brushes his teeth and rinses with mouthwash. At the last minute, he changes his tie and casts one last critical look to eliminate any remaining eyesores. Satisfied, he grabs his coat and hat, slipping the Leica into his inner pocket after a moment’s consideration. He doesn’t really know why, but he cannot but think of Johnnie’s words about making memories, which left a deep impression on him. At the very least, he wants to show it to Thomas - after all, he considers it a gift not just to him but to the both of them.

When he finally comes down, coated and hatted and ready to go out, there is already a telegram waiting for him, and he reads it on his way out the door, smiling as the mid-afternoon sunshine floods his world and his heart.

ELLIS ROYAL HOUSEHOLD BUCKINGHAM PALACE SW1A 1AA

ILL WAIT THIS TIME

He is running behind, but Richard doesn’t cut corners on safety - to avoid leaving traces of his journey, he doesn’t take the bus but sets off on foot, forcing himself to walk at a leisurely pace and stopping occasionally at a kiosk to discreetly make sure he isn’t being tailed. Paranoid, perhaps, but even in broad daylight a member of the Royal Household had best not be observed walking into Soho, as that would rouse questions he’d rather avoid having to answer. Once he’s convinced he’s in the clear, he slips into a nondescript alley - but it’s nondescript by design, and so is the entrance to the hotel he described to Thomas earlier. The average Londoner would probably describe the ambiance as seedy, but Richard knows and trusts the owner. It’s a by-the-hour, no-questions-asked kind of place for people like them, where no one stays under their own name.

Still, he feels a little dirty for meeting Thomas here, in a way he certainly didn’t when they were at the farmhouse, but that feeling disappears almost the minute he spots Thomas sitting at the hotel bar nursing a cup of coffee. His hat is sitting on the bar by his elbow, and once again Richard gets a jolt just seeing him there, waiting just as he’d promised, the way he’d hoped to see him that fateful night in York. 

Richard tips his hat to the barkeep as he approaches, gets a terse nod in return. “Is this seat taken?” he asks Thomas, indicating the stool next to him.

“Does it look like it is?” Thomas appears fidgety, not entirely at ease in these surroundings, but that is no small wonder. They’re reckless youngsters no longer, but grown men with careers they’ve built, and with age comes caution. Frankly, Richard is impressed Thomas went in with nothing but his recommendation to go on, but perhaps he simply felt safer waiting inside than loitering out in the street. The sparsely lit bar is not empty - there are a few other patrons, men and women, some alone and two or three pairs. One couple of middle-aged women reminds him of Beatrice and Constance, but Beatrice wouldn’t have to resort to places like these.

That realisation gives him an idea, which he files away for later. They’re here now and it will do.

“Are you all right?” he asks Thomas as he sits, gesturing at the barkeep to indicate he’ll have what Thomas is having.

“‘m Fine,” Thomas mutters. “Just ready to get out of here, is all. Too many eyes.”

“They’re sympathetic eyes, Mr. Bryce. Or indifferent ones, at least, which is what we want. Indifference is our friend.”

“Still, there’s too many of them.” Thomas glances over his shoulder, and Richard follows his example. In the far corner of the dingy room, two men appear to be holding hands under the table, their faces close together as they talk. Thomas jerks his shoulders and tosses back what remains of his coffee. Then he takes his hat and gets up, and Richard just catches the two words he murmurs near his ear.

“Room eight.”

He nods as discreetly as he can, doing his best not to watch Thomas as he walks away. The temptation to burn his tongue drinking the coffee and follow him immediately is almost impossible to resist, but the rational portion of his brain - which, admittedly, is growing smaller by the second - wins out. _He's here,_ he tells his frantic heart, in an attempt to slow it down. _He waited, just as he promised, and you have hours, whole days, in front of you. Don't be rash. You can wait five more minutes, or perhaps ten, to be safe._

He manages eight. Leaving payment on the bar, he greets the barkeep and notices how none of the other patrons even look up as he stands and heads into the lobby. It is a habit people like them pick up early on, to only mind one’s own business in a setting like this, and to look at faces as little or as fleetingly as possible. The less one knows, the less one remembers, the better it is. Richard has already forgotten their faces, including the two women he noticed, by the time he heads up the creaking stairs to the first floor.

He finds room eight and knocks, entering only when he recognises Thomas’s voice on the other side of the door. Thomas is sitting on the bed - one of the beds - with his arms crossed and his legs stretched out in front of him. He has taken off his coat and jacket - and shoes - leaving him in waistcoat and shirtsleeves. That sight alone makes Richard’s heart jump into his throat, and the way Thomas is looking up at him, with an expression he can't quite read, makes him feel vulnerable, exposed in a way he wasn’t expecting. Caught off guard, he turns around, fussing with the lock on the door probably longer than is necessary. He’s thirty-seven years old, for crying out loud - it’s not as if this is his first spin on the carousel. 

But it is the first time meeting _Thomas_ in this sort of setting, a voice within reminds him, while his brain is still catching up to the fact that Thomas is here at all. Just this morning, his outlook had been so very different, the prospect of empty summer days in London looming on the horizon like an incoming storm. But here he is and here they are, and it’s almost too much to wrap his mind around.

As he starts removing his hat, coat and gloves with unusually clumsy and uncooperative fingers, he hears Thomas getting up from the bed and walking slowly towards him. He takes a deep breath, turns and finally they are face to face, as they only were for a moment when they parted ways at the park.

When Thomas called him ‘Dick’, just like that, and acted like he’d never done differently.

“Are you all right?” Thomas asks, and it makes Richard realise how strangely quiet they were. His expression is getting a little easier to read, betraying nervousness and uncertainty as well, and Richard is somewhat comforted by that idea. It’s not just him, then, Thomas is still feeling his way forward in this situation just as much as he is.

It’s odd, and a little painful, to almost feel like strangers again in each other’s presence, after all that they have shared and revealed about themselves in their letters. But he knows the connection is still there - he felt it at the park, in the shared smiles, in the way the banter started flowing once Thomas recovered from the shock and they began talking.

He desperately wants to feel that way again, to be made to forget where they are, and the shame needling him for suggesting they meet here. Granted, it was an emergency - he was put on the spot and blurted out the first address that popped into his head - but if this is only the first of a series of clandestine meetings, he’ll have to do better.

“I…” He licks his dry lips, gulps slowly. “I still can’t believe you’re here,” he says, which is not exactly an answer to Thomas’s question but true all the same. “I’m still reeling from when you appeared out of nowhere right in front of me this afternoon. You’ve had more time to prepare yourself for this moment than I have.”

“I suppose, yeah.” Thomas cocks his head inquisitively. “Anything else?”

Richard begins shaking his head, then stops and glances down at his shoes. “I’m sorry about the locale, is all. This is not how I’d like it to be.”

“The locale is fine,” Thomas says, and takes a step closer. Still, he makes no move to reach out, to touch. It’s as if there’s an invisible barrier there. “Look, if it’s because I acted a bit jumpy down there, I want you to put that out of your mind right now. It was simple nerves more than anything else.”

“Nerves, huh?” Richard cracks a little smile. “Yeah, I know a bit about those.” He can’t resist anymore and reaches out, cupping Thomas’s cheek with a trembling hand. Thomas clasps his elbow in response, his bicep, and they stand like that for a moment, staring, drinking each other in.

“Have you missed me?” Thomas asks, part serious, part cheeky, and Richard feels something releasing inside of him, prompting him to surge forward.

“What do you think?” he mutters, and then presses his lips to Thomas’s before he can ask any more dumb questions with that mouth.

He can feel Thomas breathing out in a sigh, tipping his face up to meet him in the kiss, and all of that distance between them that felt nearly unbridgeable a minute ago melts away in an instant. Wrapping his fingers into Thomas’s hair, Richard kisses him as slowly and as chastely as he can bear, resisting the urge to fall headlong into this thing and release all of that pent-up longing at once, but Thomas is less patient. Slipping his hands across Richard’s shoulders and down, he tugs at his lapels, nudges his lips with his tongue, a request Richard doesn’t have the strength to refuse. With a whimper, a pathetic little sound at the back of his throat, he capitulates to the growing urgency of the kiss, because Thomas’s initial hesitation has gone right out the window, and a good thing it is too. God, it’s been _five months_ \- is it any wonder this is escalating as quickly as it is?

“Fucking finally,” Thomas growls when they pull apart with a gasp, breathing heavily, and he nuzzles Richard’s jaw, pushes his nose into his neck. “Nice cologne, Mr. Ellis, I like it.”

“Not too much?” Richard asks, dazed and happy, and Thomas chuckling against his neck sends a thrill to his gut.

“I’m surprised at your punctuality, Mr. Ellis, if you were preening in front of the mirror before coming here.”

“I promised punctuality, didn’t I?” Richard closes his eyes, surrendering to the feeling of Thomas’s lips on his neck.

“Solemnly, as I recall.” Thomas leans up slightly to rub the tip of his nose against Richard’s ear, and it’s close enough to tickling that Richard almost flinches. “Did you get my reply?”

“I did. It made me happy.”

Here, Thomas stops. Richard imagines hearing his breath catch. “It did?”

Richard nods. God, he is so smitten and lost, and it costs him nothing to say it. “You make me happy, Thomas Barrow.”

Thomas only stares at him for a moment, mouth half open and a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Damn, Richard, you never do things by halves, do you?”

Richard doesn’t quite know how to interpret that, but at least Thomas’s blush reassures him it’s meant as a compliment. Still, he has to admit he may have gone a bit overboard with the cologne, like a bloody dandy. “Sorry. Overeager as always, I’m afraid.”

He was trying to sound coy instead of hurt, but he can’t tell if he’s been entirely successful. Thankfully Thomas doesn’t seem to notice, and proceeds to bring things back on track, before Richard’s big, soppy mouth can spoil the moment any further. 

“Oh, you want to see overeager? Cause I'm sure I could match you in that department.”

With a devilish smile, Thomas backs Richard up into the wall, deftly moving his fingers down along the buttons of his jacket, opening them one by one. He slips his hands underneath and pushes the jacket off his shoulders, Richard assisting by shrugging out of it and tossing it away without looking. Then Thomas steps in and Richard can feel their hips rubbing together as their mouths meet in a crushing kiss. Dazed by the onslaught and weak in the knees, he threads his fingers through Thomas’s hair, pulls him closer as best he can, drinking, taking eagerly.

“Is this all right,” Thomas gasps as he pulls away and dives back into Richard’s neck, trailing kisses as he slips one hand to the front of Richard’s trousers, palming him briefly before unfastening his trousers just enough that he can slip his hand inside and through the gap of his underwear, taking hold of him. “Richard. Is this all right, or do you want a tour of the room first?”

Richard moans and laughs at the same time, trying to form an eloquent reply, but he finds that his cognitive functions are fading fast as Thomas’s hand expertly massages his swelling prick inside his trousers. “Ch-cheeky bastard. Ah -”

Thomas strokes him even more insistently, having almost achieved full hardness in no time. He squeezes his fingers around the shaft as he moves up and down, covering the whole length, and pulls back to look Richard in the eye. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Richard whimpers and cups his face with both hands to kiss him senseless, but only manages it for a few moments as Thomas settles into a maddening rhythm, working Richard over with leisurely twists of his wrist. Richard can do little else than lean his head back into the wall and surrender to whatever Thomas wants to do. If that includes him coming in his underwear in two minutes flat, so be it. “Oh, fuck, Thomas.”

“D’you wanna know something?” Thomas asks, maddeningly conversationally. His mouth is slightly open, his lips flushed and puffy. His hand never stops moving steadily, and it takes a considerable effort for Richard to settle his bleary gaze on Thomas’s face. “I was thinking about this all day. I was thinking about it at the park. I thought about getting down on my knees and sucking you off in front of those bloody ducks.”

Richard feels himself twitch in Thomas’s hand and blushes - his body always gives him away. “Then what are you waiting for?” he boldly asks, and Thomas chuckles.

“I’m a little overdressed,” he points out, and Richard takes the hint, lifting his fingers to the knot of Thomas’s tie and prying it loose as best he can manage. It finally yields and he frees the tie - or, rather, Thomas’s collar - tossing it in the same direction as his jacket. He makes quick work of the waistcoat while Thomas unbuttons the top of his shirt with his left hand.

“Fuck, that’ll do.” Before Richard can protest, or point out that he’s barely begun to undress himself, Thomas goes down on his knees and pulls Richard’s cock out, just like that, through the opening in his underwear and the open fly of his trousers. Grasping him firmly at the base, he leans in, casting his eyes up at Richard’s face just as he swallows his cock, just the head at first and then quickly more. He closes his eyes and moans, and from the back of Richard’s mouth erupts a similar sound. He wouldn’t say he had forgotten how good it feels to be welcomed inside Thomas’s mouth - God, he’d devoted quite a few paragraphs in his letters to that subject in particular - but memory is a fickle thing and it falls short, tragically short, of what happens when they are together, what Thomas is doing, _giving,_ with his fingers, with his mouth. The way he is gentle and demanding at the same time, giving in to his own hunger while being mindful not to cause Richard discomfort, and it touches and humbles Richard every time he’s lucky enough to be on the receiving end of that passion and care Thomas has patented.

“God,” he chokes out, and reaches down to rake his fingers through Thomas’s hair, brush his cheekbone with his knuckles. He wants to tell him how much he’s missed this, missed _him,_ but he’s afraid it will ruin the mood. “So this is what you had in mind, back at the park?” Thomas raises his eyes up at him and hums an affirmative as he sucks, his gripping him around the root still, a steady presence. As Richard watches, Thomas pulls back slowly and mouths at the tip.

“Among other things.”

Before Richard can ask what he means by that titillating remark, Thomas hooks his fingers behind the fabrics of his trousers and underwear and guides both down over his hips, baring him more fully. Richard suppresses a shudder - not from cold - and stares, mesmerised, as Thomas brackets his hips with his hands and swallows him again, unassisted, and sinks down almost the entire way until he buries his nose in the coarse hair at the base.

“Christ. _Fuck_.” Richard throbs, and Thomas moans around him, and there isn’t a feeling in the world can compare to this. And what is more, once Thomas pulls back and fills his lungs with air, he does it again, and once more. Then he pulls off completely, leaving Richard’s cock twitching and flushed an angry red, and dips lower with an arch look up at Richard’s face. He kisses Richard’s thigh and slips one hand between them, chuckling when Richard tries to widen his stance, but his sagging trousers and underwear prevent him. He must be cutting quite the figure - his trousers hanging off his arse and his tie still impeccable.

“Do you want me to help you with that?”

Richard licks his lips. “Please… please.”

A slow smirk spreads across Thomas’s face, and he starts unlacing Richard’s shoes with practised fingers.

_Oh. No half measures, then._

“How could I refuse such a polite request?”

Once the shoes come off, Thomas helps Richard out of his trousers and underwear surprisingly gently, putting them away with more care than Richard himself probably would have done. It leaves him almost fully dressed from the waist up and wearing only his hose and garters below, but when he starts pulling at his tie to restore the balance somewhat, Thomas shakes his head. “No, no, that stays on for now, Mr. Ellis.”

“But -” Richard shivers as Thomas slips the fingers of his right hand up along his calf, casting a questioning glance up at him. Exposed and jutting out into the space between them is Richard’s hard cock, and he tries not to focus on Thomas’s mouth as he tries to explain, “Look at me. Standing here half-starkers like an ass.”

“It’s just me here.” Thomas fingers tease the back of Richard’s knee, slowly trailing further upwards. He presses a kiss to Richard’s hipbone, then his lower belly, his lips leaving gooseflesh in their wake. “And I disagree. I like it. Like it a lot.” He mouths at Richard’s upper thigh, slipping his left hand around to the back to knead a bare buttock, the fabric of the glove chafing exquisitely against the skin, and Richard is almost tempted to ask him to rub harder, make him _really_ feel it. He now deliberately seems to be avoiding Richard’s prick, and Richard takes umbrage at that, but he orders himself to be patient.

He moans, “Maybe let’s take this to the bed,” but Thomas doesn’t react, circling Richard’s waist with both arms so he can cup his arse with two hands instead of just the one, sinking his fingers in and spreading him slowly. Richard groans, a primal guttural sound that then changes into a gasp as Thomas leans in low and licks at the underside of Richard’s cock, right at the base. “Thomas… the bed, love, ah -”

“No,” Thomas finally answers. Richard can feel his breath against his cock as he speaks, he's so close. “I'd like to see how good you are at taking what I'm going to give you while standing on your feet.” 

He says it so matter-of-factly, as if instructing a footman on how to clean a piece of silverware, but his voice is deeper than normal, and Richard can feel it in his viscera, in his cock. When Thomas talks like that, no matter what the request, every cell in Richard’s body says _yes._ He watches as Thomas parts his lips and sucks at the base of his cock, eyes at half mast and a low hum issuing from the back of his throat. He does these things so diligently, as if nothing could give him greater pleasure than to kneel on this hardwood floor and bury his face between Richard’s legs and mouth at his bollocks as he’s doing now. He laps at them with the flat of his tongue, finding one of the testes and taking it into his warm mouth. Richard’s knees buckle at the exquisite pressure between his legs, and then Thomas even ups the ante and hoists one of his legs up and over his shoulder, and Richard has to put one arm out to steady himself on a dresser that’s conveniently there, _thank God,_ as this new pose opens him up to Thomas’s mouth even more.

And Thomas puts that advantage to excellent use, nudging Richard’s leg higher with his shoulder as he sucks on his balls, licks at his perineum even while those fucking hands occasionally squeeze his arse. Richard can only try to stay upright as best he can and to stifle his moans against the back of his hand, realising somewhere in a corner of his mind that they were sitting at that dingy bar downstairs not ten minutes ago and here they are _now_ \- and it's good, so _good_ , but somehow it's too much and not enough at the same time. Every inch of his skin feels electrified and Thomas is being so generous with his attentions but he's also _very clearly_ going out of his way to touch Richard's cock as little as possible and Richard feels like he's going insane because of it, he needs, he _needs_ -

“Thomas," he finally gasps when he can't bear it any longer. "Please, I need to -”

Thomas stops, and sits back, and looks up at him, heavy-lidded eyes slowly regaining some focus. His lips are sinfully pink. He smiles when Richard just gapes, as if guessing the cause of his distraction, and kisses the inside of his thigh. "What, darling? Tell me."

“I just -” Richard sways slightly, and grips the edge of the dresser more tightly in a desperate bid to stay as still as possible. He has to, for Thomas.

_Darling... He's come all this way and he's pleasuring you so well and he called you ‘darling’, and you need to be good for him you need to be the best -_

“Can I - can I touch myself? Please...”

Part of him feels pathetic for asking - he never used to be like this with men, this… needy and meek - but it makes him feel so good to ask permission, not because he needs it but because he _wants_ it. He _wants_ to surrender, to give Thomas that control in the situation because Thomas seems to instinctively know how to use it to make him feel like he’s in freefall which by all rights should be terrifying but it isn’t, it’s thrilling and wondrous and so goddamn liberating to let go of the narrow ledge he’s been desperately clinging to for months, in the sure knowledge and trust that there’s a soft landing waiting for him at the end of it.

Thomas doesn’t react in the way Richard expects, with a flippant remark or a grin - instead, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Richard’s thigh, breathing out in a shaky sigh. “Fuck, ‘s so hot when you ask nicely like that,” he murmurs, and Richard feels a burst of heat in his belly at those words alone. “‘s So hot, Dick.”

And then he goes and says _that._

He wraps a hand around himself - the wrong one, the left, but it’ll do - and moans with relief as he strokes upwards. Thomas watches the movement, rapt, his mouth slightly open against Richard’s thigh. “So, ah, so you weren't just teasing me, earlier.”

“Earlier?” Thomas seems to recover somewhat, turning his head to lightly bite the inside of Richard’s thigh before looking up at him questioningly. That leg is starting to cramp somewhat, but Richard would sooner die than put it down at this point.

“At the park. Right at the end, when you said -”

Richard trails off when the grin he expected earlier materialises. Thomas knows exactly what he meant.

“Well, only in part... Wanted to see how you’d react. _If_ you’d react.” Another bite, a little higher up this time, and Richard adjusts the angle of his leg, opening himself up just that little bit more. Indecent, perhaps, but Thomas doesn’t seem in any hurry to judge him for it. “You like it, don’t you? You like it when I call you that.”

“I fucking love it.” Richard palms his tip and moans. “But you never did. At the farmhouse, you said -”

“Can’t a man change his mind?”

Through the haze of pleasure Richard thinks he detects a hint of defensiveness in Thomas's voice, and understands that it's better not to pursue this line of inquiry any further. _Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Ellis._ “Of course, and I'm glad you did. Thanks, love.”

 _Thanks, love._ For a second, Richard wants to crumble with embarrassment, but Thomas pinching his buttock and then leaning in to catch a thick drop gathering at his slit on his tongue quickly takes his mind off of that. “You taste so fucking good,” Thomas growls, and kisses his sac, and slips his hand between his cheeks, fingers brushing his hole. “I’m so fucking hard just tasting you, Dick.” He takes one of the bollocks back into his mouth and sucks diligently as he circles his hole with his finger, and if Richard could do anything but moan, he’d tell him how hot _he_ looks, worshiping between his legs the way he is.

Something within him balks at the fact that he just likened what Thomas is doing to worshiping - and by extension, himself as the receptor of that worship, when in truth no one could be less worthy - but God help him, there's no other word describes it better. Kneeling like a devout Christian before the altar, Thomas occasionally glances up at him from between his legs as he sucks on his balls solicitously like he'd be happy to continue for hours, his fingers continuously caressing his buttocks and cleft, occasionally wandering closer to his opening but never quite touching him directly. Still, the suggestion is powerful enough, and Richard works himself over mercilessly, staring at Thomas's lips doing their excellent work and knowing he's rapidly approaching the point where stopping will no longer be an option.

But maybe that's exactly what Thomas wants - to bring him to that point and enjoy the accomplishment as Richard falls to pieces right then and there, with his tie still around his neck and his leg propped up awkwardly on Thomas's shoulder.

“Thomas,” he grits out, and sucks in air through his teeth as Thomas raises his eyes up at him. “Thomas, do you -”

He stops abruptly when he picks up a sound he most definitely does not want to hear - voices, footsteps coming up the stairs just outside their room. All of a sudden, the walls and door feel woefully thin, woefully insufficient as a barrier between them and the hostile world outside. A moan stutters in his throat and Thomas pulls off him. “Quiet,” he growls under his breath, eyes wide with alarm, and Richard releases his cock to cover his mouth, hoping to stifle any other inadvertent sounds. Then they both freeze as they are, like two actors performing an obscene tableau vivant, while the footsteps outside draw closer and Richard's heart races with arousal and fear, the two somehow intensifying each other. He locked that door, he knows he did, but places like these get raided and he doubts the police would respect the message a locked door conveys.

As they wait, ears pricked up, Richard's cock twitches inappropriately, the pressure in his balls showing no signs of abating, and Thomas looks at him, eyebrows raised incredulously as if to say, _Really, Ellis? Have you no shame?_ , and it's that feeling of mortification most of all that threatens to send him over the edge, fuck, he's going to come all over himself in a second because he's a fucked up wreck who gets off on being humiliated and -

\- and then it all comes to an abrupt stop, because Thomas quickly and blessedly closes his hand over the tip of Richard's prick, pinching him, and the aborted orgasm feels almost as good as the real thing, to the point that Richard needs to bite down on his hand a little to manage to stifle his whimper.

Then they both wait breathlessly again, listening intently as the muted conversation outside continues. A woman laughs, a key slides into a lock somewhere across the hallway. Richard looks at Thomas, not yet allowing himself to relax, or to breathe even, and as they stare into each other's eyes and relief sinks in ever so slowly, Thomas smiles and lifts a finger to his lips - as if Richard would throw caution to the wind so carelessly after a scare like that, but then Thomas leans in to kiss his thigh and Richard suddenly understands the need for the reminder a whole lot better. Thomas proceeds to kiss a languorous path up towards the crux of Richard's thighs, and the back of Richard's hand stings from the bite of his teeth when those lips stop a hair short of his scrotum and Thomas's fingers twitch back to life on his arse. From out in the hallway comes the liberating sound of a door closing and being locked on the inside and all goes blessedly quiet once again, but it's a good long minute before Richard dares to remove his hand from his mouth and properly breathe again.

Thomas has removed his hand from Richard's cock in the meantime, which he takes as tacit permission to resume touching himself, but the second he does, it’s only a couple frenzied strokes before he’s right on the cusp again, hearing that siren song promising him sweet release, and he can only pray that this time, Thomas won't deny him. Even if it means coming not only on himself but the floor and Thomas’s shirt into the bargain.

“Thomas, Thomas, oh fuck, I’m almost, I’m going to -”

Thomas nods and kisses his thigh, stroking his fatigued leg encouragingly. “Yes, Dick, go on, where is it gonna be? All over yourself, in my mouth?”

Because of course he would have the solution to Richard’s predicament, and offer the use of his mouth readily. Tempting as it is, though, to stare at that perfect mouth and imagine it around his cock as he finally comes, Richard’s gaze inadvertently travels lower, to the plunge of Thomas’s open shirt and the alluring suggestion of collarbone and hairy chest.

It reminds him of that fucking letter Thomas sent him for his birthday, and the images it planted in his mind are suddenly thrust to the forefront.

“Want your chest,” he pants, and he’s pinching himself now, keeping himself right on that edge. “Your chest, love, can I, please -”

Thomas gapes at him for a moment, jaw slack and eyes wide, and Richard feels that pang of mortification again, not in a pleasant way this time, but then Thomas pulls away and starts to frantically undo the rest of the buttons, slips the braces from his shoulders. 

“Jesus Christ, of course you can, lemme jus’-” 

He releases Richard's leg to strip, and the sight of his biceps bulging as he quickly shrugs out of the shirt and then tugs the undershirt over his head is an almost impossible test for Richard's endurance, and then Thomas is getting into position on his knees, back and neck arched as he offers himself, offers his chest. He puts one hand on Richard’s calf, a single point of contact, steadying and constant. “Do it, darling, give it to me,” he murmurs, looking not at Richard’s cock but at his face, staring him straight in the eye. “I want every drop on me, can you do that?”

“I’ll - I’ll try.” Richard switches hands so he is doing this with the right hand now, the confident right, and he groans at how much better it feels, Thomas’s eyes never once straying from his face as he works himself over with rapid pulls. The other hand he presses to his mouth as a balled fist, biting down to smother the undignified moans that keep welling up from his throat against his own better judgment. He feels like he’s on fire, needing to come so desperately he’s aching with it from root to tip, and if Thomas tried to stop it this time, he’s sure his balls would fall off. “Fuck, Thomas, I’m coming -”

“Yes, Dick, give it to me,” Thomas urges thickly, and squeezes Richard’s calf, and all Richard sees as the first convulsion hits is those blue eyes holding him captive, then and through every spurt from his cock, so it is only when he’s emptied himself and feels his legs almost giving out beneath him that he can take in the end result, the strings of white criss-crossing Thomas’s upper chest, and he oscillates between pride and embarrassment at seeing how much of it there is.

As he stands there swaying on his feet, waiting for the room to stop spinning and trying not to fall on his arse, he feels Thomas reaching up and gently prying his hand from his mouth, guiding it to his own mouth and kissing it fervently as he clasps it between both hands. “That was fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs. “‘n So are you. Love to watch you fall apart like that.”

From the dazed expression on his face, you’d think he’s the one who just had a mind-shattering orgasm, when nothing could be further from the truth. Using what little strength he has, he pulls Thomas up by his hands. “On your feet, love, your poor knees must be suffering.”

Thomas huffs. “I’m only one year older than you, Ellis, not thirty.”

“One and a half.” Richard chuckles weakly and kisses Thomas’s pout, trying to keep it chaste, but Thomas has different plans. After the first, light peck he opens his mouth with a sigh and from there things escalate quickly. Richard feels sore and sensitive all over, and the surprisingly forceful kiss is just on the right side of too much: he leans back against the wall, hoping it'll stop him from sliding down to the floor, and the movement puts his thigh right between Thomas's legs, against his sex, warm and swollen and still cruelly constrained in his trousers. 

Thomas whimpers at that first casual contact of his rock hard erection poking Richard’s thigh, his hips stuttering as he adjusts his stance to repeat the movement with more purpose, and Richard feels overwhelmed with guilt for a moment, for completely neglecting Thomas's need up until this point. He lets it happen for a minute, though, the primal act of Thomas rutting against his leg even stoking the dying embers of arousal in his belly, but he’s been passively receiving quite long enough. He stops Thomas with a hand on his hip, as gently as he can, because the last thing he wants is for Thomas to feel rejected at a moment like this. 

“What - c'mon, Richard, I was close…”

And there's something about it - about the way he says that, slurring the words in a whine but with no trace of real hurt in it, about the way he was, just now, trying to rub himself off on Richard's leg while also somehow having the presence of mind to put a hand against the wall to ensure his soiled chest didn't get into contact with any part of Richard, about the strange polar symmetry of one of them being naked from the waist up and the other from the waist down… 

There's something about every single one of these things that makes Richard's heart almost burst with all he's feeling, like a swelling river, and he wants to say the words, those three little words, so much, but all he manages is a tremulous kiss to the cheek.

“Please, Mr. Barrow. I'd like to return the favour properly, if you'll let me.”


	11. Thomas

“Please, Mr. Barrow. I'd like to return the favour properly, if you'll let me.”

From the way he says it, you’d think he genuinely believes there’s a chance Thomas will decline. _Nah, I think I’d rather continue humping your leg to completion, Mr. Ellis, like a base animal in rut. Thanks for the offer, though._

“You'll hear no objections from me, Mr. Ellis.” 

To that, Richard kisses him again, on the tip of his nose this time, and Thomas's head feels light, almost empty, but in a pleasant way. The fright they had earlier, when it seemed for a moment as though they might be discovered and his pulse skyrocketed for a long, terrifying minute, has waned. There's only Richard, and his smile, and the satisfaction still coursing through his veins at having seen the man fall apart under his hands and lips, the sweetest reward imaginable for his efforts. He’d almost, _almost_ say it is enough, if not for his own aching erection.

So when Richard lowers his hand to palm him lightly through his trousers, trying to pull him closer, it takes some self-control on Thomas’s part to extract himself, with an apologetic peck to Richard’s lips to soften the blow. “Jus' let me clean up a bit first.”

Referring, of course, to his soiled chest. Richard marking him was unimaginably hot, but now he really wants to wash up before the stickiness gets a chance to start bothering him, which it will if he waits too long. Dried up semen sitting on his skin isn't exactly his idea of a good time.

Richard pouts. “Do you really have to?”

“Yes, I have to. More comfortable that way. Besides, I don’t want to get this on your clothes.”

“I'm taking them off anyway.” Not deterred so easily, Richard tries to steal another kiss, but Thomas blocks the attempt.

“Cut the cheek, Mr. Ellis, or I won't let you scrub my chest.”

He blushes a little as he says it. This is the kind of thing he has little trouble saying when they are in the midst of things - like earlier, when Richard was hard and begging for him - but it’s a different thing when they’re not on equal ground. Now, he feels a little bit ridiculous saying something like that, even in jest, and he doesn’t like it.

And Richard, perhaps, senses that. It wouldn’t be the first time the man read him like an open book. “In that case… I promise I’ll behave.”

Thomas makes a face at him as he unfastens and removes his trousers, a hiss of relief escaping him as his neglected prick finally gets the chance to breathe a little. He leaves the underpants and the garters on his legs, which earns him an appreciative hum from Richard, and he can feel some confidence returning as he turns towards the bathroom, his palm touching Richard’s thigh in what he hopes is a seductive manner.

The hotel, perhaps unsurprisingly, doesn’t offer much in terms of luxury, but there are clean towels, washcloths and soap. He turns on the taps and waits for the water to heat up while Richard enters behind him, taking off the rest of his clothes and dropping them where he stands. Thomas refrains from making a comment about it - if the man wants to return to Buckingham Palace looking like he spent the night under a bridge, that’s his business.

Their eyes meet in the mirror and Thomas looks away, pretending he wasn’t appreciatively eyeing Richard’s torso, the solid expanse of his chest, the elegant lines of his neck and clavicle. His cock throbs, and he busies himself with the washcloth to draw his attention away from it, from the telltale tenting of his underwear.

“Let me,” Richard murmurs, taking the cloth from him and wringing it out. Thomas turns around to face him, bracing his hands against the sink as Richard takes care of him, wiping his chest with care. “Least I can do,” he continues softly, “after letting you do all the work earlier. Pretty selfish of me, I’m sorry.”

Thomas smiles. “Silly man. Did you hear me complaining?”

“No.” Richard chuckles as he reaches into the sink to rinse the washcloth before continuing his self-appointed task. He is probably more thorough than he needs to be, but far be it from Thomas to object, as it is rather wondrous to be pampered like this. “Perhaps because your mouth was occupied with other things at the time.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow semi-reproachfully. “Perhaps _your_ mouth would be better used for something other than bad puns, Mr. Ellis.”

“Why, Mr. Barrow, your wish is my command,” and just like that he drops the washcloth in the sink and gets down on his knees, no mistake about his intentions. 

“Erm,” Thomas hears himself say, because his dumb mouth is always quicker than his even dumber brain. Richard freezes at once, his fingers poised on the hem of Thomas’s underwear and his face turned up questioningly. There’s confusion and uncertainty writ across his face, and Thomas experiences a moment of utter self-loathing. Fuck, it’s not as if the prospect of what Richard is offering is disagreeable in any way, quite to the contrary, but -

“What’s wrong?” Richard asks, understanding dawning in his eyes that he’s blundered somehow, he’s just not entirely sure how yet. “Not what you meant? I thought -”

Thomas wavers. _Fucking say something, idiot._ “I - I’d just rather -” He strands hopelessly on the shores of his own inadequacy, and tugs at Richard’s hand instead, pulling him back to his feet. So they are face to face, equal. The way he wants it. “This,” he murmurs against Richard’s mouth, guiding his hand between his legs. “Here.”

The moment feels fragile as glass, but Richard seems to know instinctively not to speak. He kisses Thomas somewhat tentatively, his hand settling between his legs, touching him gently through his underwear. Thomas brings his hand to the back of Richard’s head and opens his mouth for a deeper kiss. The moment passes, and the glass stays whole. Doesn’t shatter.

To Thomas’s relief, his erection hasn’t abandoned him, and he moans at Richard’s expert ministrations, pressing his hips forward eagerly, too eagerly perhaps, but he doesn’t care how it may appear. Richard palms him generously, still through the barrier of the fabric, alternately rubbing the underside of the shaft with the ball of his thumb and the head with the tips of his fingers, tracing his shape. “Fucking love your hands,” Thomas gasps, and tilts his head back when Richard finally decides to unfasten his underwear and help him out of it, baring him fully. Immediately his hand wraps around him, and his lips find the point where Thomas’s neck meets his shoulder.

“Fucking love your cock,” he growls, and Thomas’s mouth falls open on a shamefully loud groan as he plants his feet wider, the edge of the sink pressing into his bare arse only sharpening his pleasure. God, he’s so hard, and Richard’s hand is stroking him so well. He tugs Richard’s head back by his hair and kisses him wildly, tangling their tongues together. He loses himself in the simple taste of Richard's mouth, in the filthy sounds echoing around the tiny bathroom, the ball of pleasure in his gut growing and expanding until he can feel it in his chest, in his legs, and when Richard uses his free hand to pet his neck and his hair it almost makes it difficult to breathe. He tips his head to the side to offer his neck to Richard’s lips and teeth, sensing he may be seconds away from wrapping his legs around Richard’s hips because he’s not sure they’ll bear his weight for much longer.

He hadn't even realised he'd closed his eyes, but when he feels the strokes on his prick becoming less urgent, distracted almost, he opens them again to find Richard staring not at him but at some point over his shoulder. When his gaze returns to Thomas’s face, there is a glint in his eye that manages to be both sheepish and mischievous at the same time, a sure sign that something is afoot.

“What?” Thomas asks breathlessly. “What’s that brain of yours concocting, Ellis?”

With a widening grin, Richard leans in to kiss him, making him shudder with an almost casual caress of those skilled fingers. A thumb slowly circles his slit, drawing a moan from his throat. He is being played like a well-tuned instrument, and he is loving every second. “Would you turn around, love? I'd like to try something.”

“Try what?” Thomas asks, gaping, because his brain isn’t functioning at full capacity and he sees nothing wrong with the position they are currently in. “What’s the advantage -”

Richard’s eyes stay on his, steady, and all of a sudden it sinks in where they are, and how they could use the environment to their benefit.

“Oh,” Thomas stammers, “you mean - oh.”

“If you want to.” Richard kisses him again. “It’s all right if you don’t.”

Thomas’s insides clench, the prospect of facing the mirror in this state evoking a strong visceral response that could be apprehension, arousal or a little of both.

“You obviously do,” he says, buying himself some time, and Richard nods. “Why?”

“Because I want you to see what I see,” Richard replies earnestly, and there’s a slew of self-derogatory responses Thomas could give to that, but - fuck, he remembers how incredible it’d felt to watch himself kiss Richard, even from the corner of his eye. To observe their faces, their bodies together as if they were actors on the silver screen and to think that they looked _good_. Even that little glimpse had been mesmerising, addictive. Made him yearn for more, then, as it does now.

“All right,” he breathes, heart in his throat, and Richard kisses him, slowly and fondly. They briefly break apart so Thomas can turn around, but Richard immediately steps in to stand behind him, kissing his shoulder as he reaches around to take him in hand. Thomas stares at that image, the image of Richard’s hand on his prick, and exhales slowly before letting his eyes trail up higher, across the front of his torso, until he finally meets Richard’s gaze.

“Do you trust me?” Richard asks softly, and Thomas nods, finding that he can’t look away from Richard’s eyes as he starts moving his hand along his cock languidly. He braces his hands on the sink, hunching his shoulders forward, and stares at Richard, at that stupid handsome face he’s missed looking at all these long, dreary months. It grounds him enough that he manages to resist the urge to turn away from that damn mirror, but not enough that he can fully relax, or appreciate the image reflected back at them. It would be different if their positions were reversed, but it is him front and center with Richard standing behind, his body with all its imperfections - his skin so pale, not tanned like Richard’s, the beginning bulge of a belly and the rolls sitting on his hips, the excess of hair covering most of his chest and abdomen, shot through here and there with silver. _I want you to see what I see,_ Richard had said, but Thomas finds his gaze skittering away every time he tries.

It is too quiet, he realises - it is only their breathing, and his timid moans, and the unmistakable sound of skin on skin filling the bathroom, and it's not enough, not even close, thoughts are creeping in and that is the last thing he needs in a moment like this.

“Richard.” Not ‘Dick’, this time. Not the moment for it. “Talk to me, Richard, please.”

He sounds more vulnerable than he would like, but Richard is always gracious enough to take these things in stride.

“Of course, love. Then let me tell you about the joy I felt earlier, when you stepped in front of me like out of a dream.”

His hand moves unhurriedly, a gentle stimulation that doesn’t require anything of Thomas, except that he relax and enjoy it. Clearly, he isn’t going to rush through this thing, quite to the contrary - he is going to take his time for this, allowing Thomas time to get accustomed, to learn to sit comfortably with what the mirror is showing him. For now, though, he prefers to focus on Richard, on his eyes as a fixed point, and on that voice caressing his ear like his hand is caressing his prick - steady, insistent, patient.

“Do you have any idea of the effect you have on me, Thomas Barrow?”

Richard kisses his shoulder, kisses his jaw, a trail of affection that leads him back to Thomas's ear.

“Remember what I told you,” he murmurs, “when you called me on your birthday.”

Thomas smiles, feeling a warm happy rush at the memory. “Course I remember. Knocked you breathless, is what you said.”

“I did, and I meant that. But this afternoon, I realised it is actually the exact opposite. The way you make me feel.”

Thomas attempts a sarcastic chuckle, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

“Now you're pulling my leg, Ellis.”

“I'm not, love. I felt like I could breathe again just looking at you.”

“Keep talking.” Between the warm praise and endearments Richard is stringing together and the leisurely strokes of his hand, the overwhelming sensation is one of contentment. Thomas feels cherished, and cared for, and any bad thoughts in his head that manage to get to the surface immediately evaporate, so quickly that his mind can't even begin to process them. 

He can feel his muscles losing tension, relaxing - to the point where he finds himself no longer hunching over the sink, but gradually leaning more and more of his weight back against Richard, who is holding him up with his own body, the hand that isn’t on his prick lightly braced on his hip. Thomas’s head is lolling back, exposing his throat the way his entire front is exposed to the mirror, but he finds he cares less about that with every second that passes. He feels wanton, and unashamed about it. 

And Richard seems to sense the change, because just like that, his sweet nothings turn filthier. 

“Oh yes, my darling, just like that. Let me take a better look at you, at the cock that fucked me so well.” 

Thomas whimpers.

“Love seeing you like this,” Richard murmurs, as he unexpectedly twists his hand a certain way that makes Thomas’s knees buckle. “Love feeling you getting even harder in my hand as you surrender so wholly and unreservedly. See for yourself, love.” 

At some point Thomas’s eyes had almost slipped shut in bliss, his lids growing so heavy he couldn’t resist anymore. He opens them now - because when Richard orders him so gently his gut compels him to obey, no questions asked - and looks at their reflection properly for what is really the first time.

_Oh._

He stares unabashedly, all shyness forgotten. It is a bewildering image the mirror is showing him, but at the same time it is turning him on in a way he really didn’t expect, seeing himself like this - the skin of his neck and chest flushed with arousal, his mouth open, his features lax. But it is what is between his legs that is drawing his gaze most of all, his reddened cock expertly handled by Richard’s hand, the dark bollocks visible underneath, and Richard’s eyes over his shoulder seeing just as he is seeing, taking it all in, attentive and infinitely gentle. They both watch as Richard closes his fingers around his tip and swipes his thumb across, slowly spreading out the moisture welling up from the slit.

“Oh, fuck, Richard,” Thomas moans, and Richard’s eyes flick up to his face, gauging his response. “You’re so fucking good at that.” 

“I love that you're letting me do this to you," Richard replies, his voice so thick that Thomas would almost think _he_ is the one about to soil this fucking sink, if it weren't for the fact he can feel Richard's cock limp and soft against his backside. “You were so good to me earlier, you’re always so good to me. Please, let me make you come.”

“Jesus Christ, yes, yes, go on -” He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, but Richard doesn't need eloquence. His hand on Thomas's cock speeds up, squeezing the head on every stroke upwards with _just_ the right amount of pressure, while the other begins caressing the inside of his thighs, his balls, his stomach. “Fuck, yeah, touch me,” Thomas babbles mindlessly, twisting an arm back to wrap his fingers into Richard’s hair and planting his feet wider, pushing his hips out. “God, Richard, it looks so good. We look so fucking good together.”

Richard moans an affirmative. “Keep looking, love,” he urges, but Thomas couldn’t look away now even if he wanted to. “Keep looking at yourself, I want you to remember this always.”

Thomas is unraveling, trying to hold off, to resist moving even if he desperately wants to meet Richard’s movements, to give in to the primal urge to fuck into that exquisite grip and chase his own release. He doesn’t exactly know why, but it would feel like defeat somehow, as if he’d be letting Richard down if he lost control like that. His whimpering turns into a whine, high and needy. “ _Please.”_

“It’s all right, love,” Richard croons. His wandering hand caresses Thomas’s hip, slowly trails up his flank. It splays against his ribcage, over his heart, but it avoids his nipple and Thomas is almost disappointed. But not for long, as those talented fingers follow the trail of hair down his belly and dip between his legs once again, grasping his most tender bits. “I’m here,” he says, “I’ve got you.”

Thomas lets out a gasp. His hips push forward in a first, timid thrust and immediately stop, but of fucking course keen-eyed Richard Ellis takes notice. 

“What is it? Go on, tell me.”

“I want -” Thomas closes his eyes briefly and opens them again, along with his big stupid mouth. “Shit, I want to fuck your hand, all right?”

_Oh yes, really attractive, Barrow, admitting that, in the end, you /really/ just want to rut away like a dog in heat -_

“Then what are you waiting for?” Richard grins, and Thomas’s stomach does a funny flip. “Go on,” Richard murmurs, slowing his strokes. “Do it, use my hand.”

Thomas obeys so promptly it would be embarrassing if he weren’t almost out of his mind with pleasure at this point, keeping one arm twisted back around Richard’s neck and bracing the other on the sink as he starts to thrust mindlessly into his fist. They are doing it together now and that makes it even better, Richard still fucking murmuring filthy encouragements into his ear as he ruts to completion, staring at his cock slipping through Richard’s fist, the sounds they’re making only stoking the fire in his belly, making him thrust with more abandon. “Oh fuck,” he groans, “oh fuck, Richard, ‘s perfect, so fucking good -” 

“That’s it, Thomas, get yourself off, love, just like that -” 

The first jolt, when it comes, is so intense it almost feels like a stab to the gut. Thomas’s moan sounds like it’s been punched out of him. Richard holds him close, kissing every part of Thomas he can reach, his neck, his shoulder, and when he gets to the bicep he stops and starts sucking. Thomas stares at himself in the mirror, at his mussed-up hair and gaping mouth, at the wild expression his face takes on as his seed pulses out of him and across the sink in one thick spurt after another.

In all this Richard is doing his best to make sure not even a drop ends up on the floor or on the mirror, and it’s a good thing he is trying because Thomas doesn’t have the wherewithal to do anything but stay upright, and the contrast between Richard’s composure and his own debauched reflection feels unbearable for just a second, something in him balking at the indignity of being seen like this, even if it is only Richard. But it’s also making come harder than he’s done in months.

And this was only Richard’s hand that’s done this, that’s skillfully taken him apart and left him trembling and swaying on his feet. He laughs suddenly, a breathless burst of joy and relief, and Richard kisses the tender spot his teeth have left on his bicep. “Absolutely beautiful, love. Thank you for letting me witness that.”

“I should thank _you._ ” Thomas lets his head fall back against Richard’s shoulder with a contented sigh. He can feel his wits slowly returning. “Too bad you haven’t recovered your verve yet. I’d let you put it between my thighs, gladly.”

“There’s still time.”

“Not enough.” He hadn’t necessarily meant to say that, but his orgasm has loosened his lips. He would probably say just about anything that came to his mind right now. “Never enough time, is there.”

Richard kisses his shoulder, his arms holding Thomas up by his waist. Keeping him from slipping to the floor boneless and weak. “Do you want to lie down?” 

“Yeah… yeah, good idea.” Thomas chuckles. “You sure had your sweet revenge on me for earlier, didn’t you? Bringing me off like this and making me watch as you did.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be revenge.” Richard kisses him again and Thomas feels him reaching out, turning on the tap so the water can wash away the mess he’s made in the sink. “But I’m very glad you seemed to like it.”

“Seemed to,” Thomas parrots feebly, and chuckles. “False modesty doesn't suit you, Ellis. But… yeah, I loved it. Much more than I expected to, frankly.”

“Good.” Richard keeps the taps running for a few moments more, wiping the sink with the cloth he used for Thomas’s chest earlier, before finally turning them off.

“Thank you.” Thomas is so relaxed he worries he’s about to fall asleep right there, pinned between the sink and Richard’s body. “Thank you, that would have bothered me.”

“You’re welcome.” Richard kisses him below the ear. “Come, love. I’ll help you.”

“I can walk,” Thomas protests, raising his hackles a little at Richard’s fussing, but damn it, his legs just won’t cooperate still and it’s only Richard’s hand grasping his elbow that saves him from embarrassing himself beyond a little stagger en route to the bed.

“Blimey, Thomas, drinking a whole bottle of wine made you less tipsy than this. Should I be flattered or worried?”

He instinctively tries to hold his reply back - but then asks himself why ever he should. “Forgive me if I need a moment to recover from the best orgasm I've had in five months.”

Richard beams - it’s bloody unfair how attractive he is when he does that. “Is it very silly of me if I say I find that reassuring to hear?”

“Depends, Dick,” Thomas replies as they reach the bed and settle on top of the covers. He stretches out his legs with a sigh of relief. “If you find that reassuring because you were secretly worried someone else was giving me good orgasms, then yes, you're very silly.”

Richard only chokes out a laugh in reply, which tells Thomas that he wasn't too far off the mark.

“Well, it'd only be fair, wouldn't it? Considering the last time we saw each other you had to hear all about me being an idiot in Soho. Letting strange men cozy up to me. Touch my hair.”

So from being in front of the mirror they’ve gone to _this_ in the space of about two minutes.

“And from what I recall that conversation led to us both promising there'd be no one else. What's gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Richard murmurs, rolling over on his side, his hand going soothingly to Thomas's hip. “Forgive me, apparently I've forgotten how one makes jokes.”

Thomas sighs, rubs his nose. All the emotions of the day are starting to take their toll and his mind doesn't feel as sharp as it should, but this is important. “Listen, even if it were fair - which it _isn't,_ but even if it were - I have had no… no desire and no intention to do that. All right?”

Richard doesn’t respond right away, and Thomas wonders if he’s done enough to convince him. “All right.”

Hoping to lighten the mood some, Thomas adds, “Would’ve had no opportunity besides. Butlering is all I’ve had time for lately, have barely strayed ten feet from the house. And it isn’t every day a royal contingent visits and I find myself propositioned by someone who looks like he should be acting in a picture with Gary Cooper.”

“Oh, shush,” Richard scoffs, blushing, and laughs. It has the desired effect, and Thomas feels Richard curling into him more closely. Thomas wraps a lazy arm around his shoulders, a reaction that comes completely naturally and without thought. “Tell me more about all this butlering you’ve been doing.”

“Not much to tell that’s interesting.” Thomas shrugs. “Been busy training Albert up to be a proper footman and haven’t had much time off. I needed to make up for all the half days I took back in April and May to traipse around York with Phyl.”

“And with success.” Richard reaches for his hand and guides it to his mouth, brushing his lips across the knuckles. “I can’t ever thank you enough for what you did, or properly explain how much it’s meant to me.”

Thomas finds himself squirming without really knowing why. “Then stop trying. I did it because I wanted to. Besides, I owe the world some good deeds.”

“Well, I’ll never forget it,” Richard states simply, and thankfully that seems to conclude the matter. “Johnnie is quite the character, isn’t he?”

“I think ‘rascal’ is the word you’re looking for.” Thomas harrumphs. “Did he tell you he tricked me when taking my photograph? Wonder how he keeps getting work, if he does that to all his clients,” he snarks. “But he did agree to meet you in the end, so that makes him all right in my book.”

“I’m sorry you felt tricked, but I’m not sorry for the result.” Richard squeezes his hip slightly. “Absolutely love the photograph. Been looking at it every day.”

“Have you?” Richard nods, and Thomas doesn’t quite know how to respond, but he likes the thought. A lot. He taps his lips with empty fingers - talking about smoking makes him want to smoke. “Did he tell you anything valuable?”

“Oh yes,” Richard says softly. “He and Uncle Hugh were together for seven years, and he had the stories and the pictures to prove it. An album’s worth. Which reminds me… there’s something I want to show you. Something he gave me, gave us.”

He starts to get up, but Thomas stops him, bemoaning the emptiness he feels at his side as soon as Richard vacates the spot. “Where are you going?”

“Not far - it’s in my coat.” Richard caresses his belly, kisses his chest. “Which I left somewhere near the door, if memory serves.”

“I’ll get it.” Before Richard can object, Thomas is up on his feet. “I was about to get up for my cigarettes anyway.”

He locates his cigarettes and then Richard’s coat, bringing it back to the bed. The inner pocket bulges and feels heavy, but he doesn’t peek. “What’re you looking at?” he asks Richard, who is stretched out on his side, completely at ease in his nakedness. Physically he is in many ways the opposite of Thomas - slim, even around the waist and hips, tanned, hairless except for the line running down his belly and the fuzz between his legs. His sex is resting on his thigh, soft and spent.

“When I see a beautiful man coming towards me, Mr. Barrow, I take notice.”

Thomas just rolls his eyes and hands him the coat, easing back into his former position and crossing his legs at the ankles. Richard sits up, his knee accidentally bumping against Thomas’s thigh, but it doesn’t occur to them to split themselves over the two beds, or even push the two together to create a double. To the contrary, Thomas finds the tight fit offered by the narrow single almost comforting. 

He starts to take a cigarette out of the case to put between his lips, but his eyes refuse to leave Richard even for a second, following every movement as he extracts something compact and rectangular wrapped up in a handkerchief from his coat. “What’s that, then?” he asks curiously, and Richard chuckles, clearly relishing the moment.

“First things first, Mr. Barrow. Here, let me help you with that.” Ignoring the open case Thomas holds out to him, Richard takes the lighter from his idle fingers instead and holds the flame up to the end of his cigarette. It catches, and Thomas inhales.

“Thanks.”

For a moment longer the flame lingers between them as Richard appears distracted, staring at Thomas’s mouth.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, and places the lighter on the bedside table.

“You’re not taking one yourself?”

“I’m hoping you’re willing to share,” Richard replies, narrowing his eyes as he flashes a cheeky smile at Thomas, who feels his stomach do a funny little flip _again_. God, he’s missed this so much. 

“I’ll think about it… if you put an end to this suspense and tell me what you’ve got there,” he says, reaching out with the hand not holding the cigarette to half-heartedly push back the lock of hair falling over Richard’s forehead. It’s something he does without thinking, an impulse welling up inside of him, but from the way Richard’s breath slightly stutters, it’s clear the gesture has some significance beyond the very obvious. He withdraws his hand slowly and sets it on Richard’s thigh instead, moving his thumb slightly back and forth as Richard carefully unfolds the handkerchief. 

“Is that a…” 

“A Leica, 35 mm. State of the art, Mr. Barrow,” Richard chirps, taking the camera in both hands and showing it to Thomas with a flourish worthy of a magician. _The ham_. But he also looks like a kid who just unwrapped his long-awaited Christmas present, which makes it hard to feel annoyance. “And it’s all ours.”

“Ours?” Richard nods emphatically. “Can I see?”

Richard plucks the cigarette from his fingers before placing the camera in his hands, fluffing up the pillow behind him and crossing his legs as he takes a leisurely drag. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

“Leica, isn’t that a German brand?”

Richard’s face falls almost imperceptibly. Thomas wants to kick himself. _Learn to read a bloody room._ He lifts the camera to his face and peers into the viewfinder. “Hard to believe something so small takes an actual picture. Have you been using it?”

“Just a handful of times.” Richard leans away to get the ashtray from the bedside table, placing it on the bed between them and flicking the ash off the cigarette. “Johnnie told me to practise with it whenever I could, but… I’ve been running around thinking about boots and buttons and very little else.”

“Not right now, I hope.” Thomas lowers the camera to grin at him. “And certainly not earlier, when all you should have been thinking of was my mouth between your legs.” 

Richard chokes on the smoke he was just inhaling, but he recovers quickly. 

“My head is full only of you, Thomas Barrow,” he murmurs, keeping the cigarette away and leaning over for a kiss that turns out to be quite elaborate and distracting, and it's only the Leica almost slipping from Thomas's slack fingers that snaps them out of it. 

“Is it? Good,” Thomas can’t resist saying breathlessly, and he wraps his fingers around Richard’s wrist and pulls his hand to his mouth, helping himself to a drag of the cigarette as he stares at Richard’s face, into those eyes that now remind him of Mrs. Ellis the way hers reminded him of Richard previously. Embarrassed by the thought, he exhales through his nose.

“So, erm... you were saying?”

Richard looks sheepish. “Lost my train of thought, I’m afraid. Your fault.”

“How is that my fault, when it was you kissed me?”

“Wasn’t the kiss that sent my mind into a spin.” Richard looks even more sheepish “Damn, Thomas, you’re so fucking sexy I don’t know where to look sometimes.”

For that, Thomas kisses him again. It doesn’t occur to him to gloat this time. “You’re not half bad yourself, Dick,” he murmurs against Richard’s lips, and feels the clutch of Richard’s fingers at the back of his head tightening. On an impulse, he adds, “You’ve never called me sexy before.”

“I’m sure I’ve done.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Haven’t. I’d remember.”

“What an oversight on my part.”

“Quite.” Thomas rubs the tip of his nose against Richard’s. “I like it. I think you’re daft, mind you, but I like to hear you say it.”

Smiling, Richard reaches up and runs his fingers through Richard’s hair slowly. “Get ready to hear me say it more often, then.”

Thomas kisses him again, wishing he had his hands free to do a little groping, but he’s holding an expensive piece of equipment he’s supposed to be surveying instead. Regretful, he retreats a little to look at it, fiddling with the knobs.

“Why didn’t you tell me in your letters Johnnie gave you this?”

Richard looks surprised for a second, and Thomas wonders if his tone just now was unintentionally accusing. “I mean… you wrote about Johnnie, about the photo album and some of the things he told you. Why not this?”

“I’m - I’m not quite sure,” Richard says, a little self-consciously, as he passes the cigarette back to Thomas, who takes a last hit and then puts it out. “Wanted to keep it a surprise, I guess. To save it for our next meeting, whenever that would be, and see your face when I showed it to you. Not the most earth-shattering explanation, I’m afraid.”

Richard’s earnest reply is like a knife to the gut. _And you had to try and act the jokester with your comment about the brand. You’re a cad, Barrow. A cad who doesn’t deserve the time of day from this man._

“Show me how it works,” he says softly, holding up the apparatus between them. “There’s all kinds of buttons here. What’s this one do?”

Richard begins explaining as best he can, naming the different parts and corresponding functions he seems to have memorised while having no true technical expertise to boast of - no more than Thomas does, at any rate - but his enthusiasm, as always, is infectious and more than a little endearing.

“Did Johnnie teach you all this?” he asks, impressed, and Richard bows his head, chuckling.

“Er… no, not exactly. His instructions didn’t comprise much more than ‘aim and snap’. No, I found a book on photography in the palace library and signed it out.”

“Really?” Thomas doesn’t wait for Richard’s nod. “You can sign out any book you want?”

“Well, no. There’s a restricted section with rare books, you know, incunables, first editions and such. But as long as you steer clear of those, yeah, you can take just about anything.”

“Must be quite the place, I imagine.”

“One of my favourite rooms in the palace. I wish I could show you.”

“I do, too.” Thomas smiles, shy all of a sudden, and Richard gives a similarly demure smile in return. “So… you like an educational read, do you? Careful, people will think you're looking into other careers, borrowing such reading material.”

“Yeah,” Richard laughs. “First the book about… well, it doesn't matter, and now this.”

Richard’s blush piques Thomas’s interest. “Are you collecting trivia to impress me, Mr. Ellis?” he teases, and it’s only when Richard blushes even harder that he realises there’s something worth pursuing here. “What other book was this?”

“Oh, it was just… hmmm.” Richard coughs and clears his throat, in a none too subtle bid to stall for time, clearly wishing he could take the slip of the tongue back. “You’ll laugh, or think I’m completely batty.”

“Damn, Richard, I really want to resist prying, but you’re not exactly making it easier.” Thomas picks up the ashtray and puts it on the bedside table, out of harm’s way. Then he throws one leg over and straddles him. “For what it’s worth, I won’t think you’re batty, whatever it is.” He trails his fingers idly over Richard’s stomach. “But if you’d rather not tell me, I’ll drop it.” 

“I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, aren't I?” Richard chuckles, ducking his head slightly, while his hands go to Thomas's hips with a kind of automatic ease that makes something very pleasant flicker in his chest. “Well, have you ever read this work titled - silly question, of course you must have, forget I said that -”

“Richard, breathe -”

“... _From Huygens to Warren - An Evolution of Clocks_?”

Thomas isn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but certainly not _that._ “Oh, God, I tried,” he says, laughing. “I purchased it on an impulse, in a Ripon bookshop about two years ago, because I like to keep up with the latest developments in the field. Bit off a bit more than I could chew with that one.” He stops talking abruptly, suspicion roused by Richard’s increasingly sheepish expression. “Why? You… don’t tell me _you_ read it.”

“‘Wrestled my way through’ describes it better.” Richard bites his lip thoughtfully and splays his fingers, his hands bracketing Thomas’s flanks. “Not the most compelling read, I agree with you.”

“But… but why?” Confused, Thomas shakes his head. “Why would you waste your time on something so uninteresting?”

While he finds clocks fascinating, he has no illusions as regards the general population. Every footman he ever tried to teach about them could barely muster a fraction of the interest he’d have liked to inspire.

“I don’t consider it time wasted,” Richard says, and blushes. “I wanted to understand more about one of your passions, and now I do. Marginally.” Then he chuckles, as if this is something people tell Thomas every day. “D’you think me very silly, Mr. Barrow?”

“No. Not for this.” _Only for caring about me as much as you do, apparently._ “I can’t believe you, as a layman, read that whole thing. I didn’t even get halfway.”

“Well… what stops you from trying again?” Richard smiles. “You could finish it if you put your mind to it.”

Thomas sits up slowly, gazing down at the man who is getting to know his flaws better than anyone - and inexplicably appreciates him anyway. Looks at him like he hung the moon and the stars with it.

“Perhaps I could,” he concedes, hesitantly. “But what if I told you that it’d be quite a bit harder for me than it was for you, and take quite a bit longer?”

Richard frowns. “What do you mean? I’ve never met someone who reads as much as you do.”

Thomas snorts. “Agatha Christie, Winnie-the-Pooh, the odd adventure novel… I’m hardly an intellectual.” 

“Stop selling yourself short,” Richard says gently, and cups his face. “What is it you want to tell me, Thomas?” 

He attempts a casual shrug. _Why the fuck did you even bring this up, you dimwit_. “What I already told you - sometimes it takes me longer. Reading, that is. It was even worse when I was little.” He tries to stop there, but can’t help adding, “Meant it when I said I’m too dumb for poetry.”

“You’re not,” Richard says vehemently, then softens his tone immediately. “Do you know why it takes you longer?”

“It’s just…” Thomas isn’t quite sure how to explain it - he’s never been in a position where he had to. “My eyes mix up the letters sometimes. Distort the words. In school, it became very apparent something was wrong with me - I just couldn’t keep up. The other boys called me ‘the slow one’, until I gave one of the ring leaders a good pummeling. I suspect the master chalked it up to some mental defect - talked to my parents about it on one occasion. I was sitting at the top of the stairs, trying to listen in. The meeting lasted about five minutes before my Dad showed him the door. Heard him bristling, ‘No son of mine is a retard’, one of those rare times I felt something for the old man other than fear or resentment. It was never talked about again.”

He takes a breath, and waits for Richard’s response. He hopes it won’t be pity.

“I’ve heard of that condition,” Richard says thoughtfully, chewing on what Thomas just told him. “What happened after that? How did you manage?”

Thomas shrugs again. “Worked my tail off. I was never the studious type, but I started reading like a maniac. Stayed up past my bedtime to read _Treasure Island_ by the light of a single candle, night after night, and when I finally finished it I flipped right back to the first page and started again. I read my favourite passages over and over, until I knew them by heart. Then I moved on to the next book and did it all over again. It certainly didn’t cure me, I’m not even sure it helped much, but it made me more confident. I found a way to deal with it, if nothing else.”

Talking about this while sitting in Richard's lap suddenly feels odd. He scoots away, until he's sitting on the bed but they are still face to face, their legs intertwined. Richard lets him go, his hands trailing from Thomas's hips to his thighs, his knees, but never disappearing entirely. 

“I've never told this to anyone,” he muses. “I mean, Phyl did notice something when we were little, but she - she doesn't know I still struggle. And when Carson sent me to fetch wine from the cellar and I came back with the wrong bottle, he just told me to get my eyes checked. Little did he ever know it was the damn calligraphy that threw me. What a joke, huh?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Richard gazes into his eyes earnestly, his fingers brushing the back of Thomas’s knee. “I think it's the opposite. I - don't take this the wrong way, but your perseverance, even as a child, is an incredible thing. I’m - I’m in awe of you, there’s no other way to say it.” 

Thomas huffs, leaning back on his hands. “You're a funny one. How could one take a remark like that the wrong way?”

“You said yourself I can be a bit patronising.”

But he isn't, not right now. He's being kind and steady and Thomas thinks, not for the first time, _I want to keep you._

“Maybe I like your patronising ways when you use them to flatter me rather than lecture me.”

“That's good to know. And I'm the last person you need a lecture from.”

“Oh, you've changed your tune.”

Richard smacks him with the pillow. “Cheeky sod. You're the strongest person I know, and what you told me is just more testament to that.”

“Hey, careful.” Laughing, Thomas blocks the next blow of the pillow and wrenches it from Richard’s hand, disarming him.

“Scared you’ll break, are you?”

“Not me, but this.” Thomas raises the camera to his face and peers through the viewfinder, aiming so he has Richard’s face and upper torso centered in the middle. “Now here’s a picture I’d like to have in my drawer.”

Richard swallows slowly, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t tell him to stop talking nonsense. 

“Who’s to say you can’t?” he says, his tone a mix of daring and coy that strikes Thomas right in the groin. “Johnnie offered to develop any films discreetly, no judgment passed.”

“Did he, now?” Thomas angles the camera lower. They’re each as naked as the other, and it seems that Richard is somewhat affected by the turn this conversation has taken. “And you trust him?”

Richard gives an embarrassed little chuckle. “More than I trust myself right now.”

“Mmm,” Thomas muses, and uses one hand to push at Richard’s gartered leg slightly so his thighs fall open more. “Maybe I’m not comfortable with him seeing you like this, though. Maybe I’d rather keep this to myself. Is that very selfish of me?”

“Fuck,” Richard mutters, and tips his head back slightly as Thomas strokes the inside of his thigh one-handed, watching himself do it through the viewfinder, which somehow adds to the eroticism. “If it is, I don’t care.”

“But you like it, don’t you?” Thomas moves his hand up higher slowly, trailing his fingers leisurely across the sensitive skin of Richard’s inner thigh. “You like the suggestion of it.”

Richard meets his gaze and worries his lip between his teeth before nodding. “Yes.”

To reward him for his honesty, Thomas touches him where he wants it most, encouraging his visibly swelling cock to get harder with a brush of his fingers along the shaft. Rubbing the tip as it starts to peek out of the foreskin, gently and then a little more insistently. “Can I have more,” Richard gasps out, “please,” and because he asks so nicely, Thomas gives in, wrapping his hand around the tip and pumping slowly, but with just enough strength to make Richard’s toes curl, a deep moan rumbling up in his chest.

“Look at you,” Thomas murmurs thoughtfully. “So responsive… I barely have to touch you. Never get tired of this, Dick. It’s a loss to the blokes in Soho, but you're only mine to see.” 

It’s as if these words flip a switch inside Richard’s mind. For a moment he’d worried the reference to Soho was ill-chosen and would spoil the mood, but it seems to have accomplished the opposite: Richard’s back arches, his arms fall bonelessly to the mattress, and even Thomas with all his insecurities can’t doubt that right now, in Richard’s world, there’s only the hand pumping his cock - and it’s Thomas’s. The thought spurs him on to work even harder, to give more pleasure.

“That's all I want to be. Yours, please, just yours.”

And then he goes and says _that_ , on top of things. God, he’s so good at enjoying himself, at being in the moment, like nothing could bring him greater pleasure than Thomas fondling him. He’s fully hard already, too.

“What do you want, Richard?” he asks, putting the camera aside and getting up on his knees, waiting for Richard to open his eyes and meet his gaze. He grins, “Besides being mine, what do you want right now? I offered you my thighs earlier, but something tells me you’re not going to take me up on it.”

Richard groans and pushes up into Thomas’s hand, but Thomas keeps his fingers still and slack, raising an eyebrow. Richard drops his hips to the bed. “God, I would like so much for you to take me, but I don’t know if I’m up for it today.”

“All right,” Thomas says, in what he’s sure is an infuriatingly nonchalant tone. “What then?”

He squeezes Richard’s cock just under the head, and Richard chokes out a sound that is half moan, half laughter. “Damn it, Thomas, how can you expect me to form a single coherent thought when you’re doing that?” Thomas backs off with a chuckle, and Richard takes a breath to clear his head. “Would you - would you have mine? My thighs? I know they’re not much, but they’re yours if you want them.”

The way Richard makes the suggestion - earnestly, with a little coyness and uncertainty mixed in - stirs something deep in Thomas’s gut. Fuck, maybe it’s not what he would have chosen for himself right now, but the want he sees in Richard’s eyes is the most powerful aphrodisiac of all, and it turns him on to the point where he would probably get enthused for anything Richard cared to suggest, no matter how outlandish.

His body, though, is less cooperative than his brain.

“I’d like to indulge you, Mr. Ellis,” he says, low, “but I have nothing to offer you at present. You depleted me rather thoroughly earlier.” 

Richard blinks, his face gaining a determined streak. “And I'm proud of that, but maybe I could prove you wrong.”

“Oh, could you now?”

“I could get you ready with my mouth,” he replies, while his left foot starts stroking Thomas's right calf. “I would be glad just to try.”

_Well, then._

“I see. And how do you suggest we manage that on this bed?”

“It’s no worse than Downton, and we made do there.” Richard grins. “You could sit on my chest.”

“I suppose I could.” Thomas pauses, looking at Richard who is staring back at him, mouth slightly open. “Well, what are you waiting for? On your back, love.”

Richard moves to promptly obey, offering up a smile that is part cheeky, part apologetic. “Was waiting for the order, is all.”

Thomas reaches for the pillow to put under Richard’s head, grabbing the one from the other bed for good measure. “Like getting orders, don’t you?”

Richard blushes, shifting on the bed until he’s comfortable and then laying still. “Do sometimes, yeah.”

“Sometimes,” Thomas repeats thoughtfully, as he throws one leg over Richard’s chest and gets into a straddling position. “How will I know when you do, and when you don’t?”

“You’ve been doing a pretty good job of figuring it out so far,” Richard says, and opens his mouth slightly in anticipation. Thomas feels a pull in his belly that doesn’t yet translate to his cock, but he has every reason to be optimistic that what happens next will change that soon enough. “You have good instincts, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas hums, pleased with the assessment, and takes hold of himself. “Are you comfortable enough?” Richard nods and licks his lips, lifting his hands and setting them upon Thomas’s hips. “When you need a break, let me know.” Another nod, and Thomas inches just that little bit closer on his knees, keeping himself poised. With the other hand he cups the side of Richard’s neck. “Open up,” he instructs, and Richard obligingly parts his lips to receive him, keeping his eyes locked on Thomas’s face as he slowly feeds him the first few inches of his cock.

The first touch of Richard’s mouth is always electric, the effect compounded even by the fact that it’s been _five fucking months_ , and Thomas is almost grateful that Richard doesn’t do anything too elaborate to start with, in fact doing very little at all, just resting there with his lips comfortably wrapped around him. Thomas resists the urge to stroke himself, instead letting go to touch Richard’s forelock and then set his hand on his thigh. Already he can feel something starting to happen, but he can wait. There is no rush at all.

After what feels like minutes, Richard sighs and starts working his mouth slowly - Thomas can feel a slight pressure on the head of his cock as Richard sucks a little, then curls up his tongue, slipping it back and forth against him. He hollows his cheeks and takes a little more of him, using his fingers poised on Thomas’s hips to guide him closer. Thomas being mostly soft enables him to accommodate all of him with relative ease, but he is in a hurry no more than Thomas is, using his lips and what little leeway he has to bob his head, guiding the foreskin back and forth and sucking diligently on the exposed crown.

After a couple minutes of this, Thomas realises his breathing has picked up speed, and when Richard eventually pushes at his hips, disconnecting with a soft pop of his lips, he can see - they both can - a significant change.

Not significant enough, though, to have Richard turn over and take his thighs right then and there. It is in no way due to a lack of skills on Richard’s part, but Thomas feels guilt creeping in at the thought that he may interpret it that way. That Richard may think it's his fault, when Thomas is the one defective.

It’s difficult not to think of it as failure - not being potent enough, _masculine_ enough.

“Sorry - I know this is a chore but I'm getting there, promise.”

If it were anyone else, the pathetic attempt at humour may have fallen flat, but Richard just smiles and kisses the tip of his shy prick. “Oh, I can see that, but I don't mind sucking you while you're soft, love, on the contrary... I like being able to keep you entirely in my mouth so easily.” He glints up at Thomas, who feels a jolt at his core. “You know it's not so easy when you're hard.”

Thomas whimpers, and he’d swear he can see his cock growing a little as he watches. “I could say the same thing about you,” he says, truthfully, and Richard chuckles.

“Thanks. But it’s not the same thing, is it?” Another kiss, and Thomas thinks it’s unlikely he’ll ever tire of seeing Richard mouthing at his cock, hard or not. “‘s A lot to take,” he adds, casual as you please, “but I enjoy a challenge.”

“Jesus,” Thomas hisses through his teeth. “Your fucking mouth will get me hard one way or another, huh?”

Richard’s smile is just a hair off smug. “May I continue?” 

Thomas hesitates for a second before giving a reply. Richard is acting cocky and seems to genuinely be enjoying having the upper hand right now, but then again… he did say that Thomas should trust his gut.

“Surely you can ask more nicely than that.”

Richard actually looks _chastised_ for a moment, in a way Thomas finds jarring for reasons he is given no time to identify or dwell on.

“I'm sorry,” Richard murmurs, which just makes it worse, but then his face transforms into the sweetest, most innocent smile he is capable of - just a hair off coquettish - and Thomas decides not to think about what just happened, a least not now. “Please, darling, let me continue sucking your cock. I’ll be good this time and keep at it until you’re ready to take me.”

“Yes,” is all he manages to grit out, and, “Go on, suck it.”

Barely has he given the word or Richard swallows him down once more, this time getting to work immediately, gradually pulling Thomas closer by the hips so he can lean his head back into the pillow and comfortably take him deeper. He works his tongue with more insistence, swirling it around his tip, rubbing at the frenulum. From his throat issues a soft humming sound that causes vibrations Thomas feels all along his cock, and it's so good he has to brace himself against the headboard, mindful not to lean his weight entirely against Richard or fucking choke him, which would not be conducive to arousal.

To put it mildly.

But Richard has got this, has quickly established a good rhythm, a steady push-and-pull of his hands on Thomas’s hips, showing him what he is willing and able to take. It is actually pleasant to be guided, Thomas finds, because it allows him to give himself over to the sensations without having to worry about causing Richard discomfort. For several long moments he feels blessedly adrift, like a mindless vessel on a sea of pleasure, his world narrowing to the moist heat of Richard’s mouth and tongue and the way he seems to take up more and more space inside with every minute that passes.

Eventually the slight pressure of Richard’s fingers weakens further and then disappears as he slowly lowers his arms to the bed, staring up at Thomas who blinks in surprise, taken aback by this change in tack. But the message is clear, and so he continues moving as though Richard’s hands were still there guiding him instead of lying idle on the covers.

He tries to keep his rhythm steady, not really thrusting, just sliding as unhurriedly as he can manage in and out the circle of Richard's lips. He reminds himself the goal of this isn’t getting off and he can take his time, still, can take his sweet time fucking Richard’s mouth, letting him taste every inch at his leisure. It's an exquisite plateau and he's relishing it, just like Richard seems to have reached a sort of trance, not really working his mouth anymore but mostly receiving and focusing on doing it well.

He doesn’t want to look away from the sight in front of him, but at one point he glances over his shoulder, trying to see if Richard's prick is feeling neglected in all this and perhaps requires some assistance but apparently he needn't worry - Richard is _throbbing_ and clearly not in need of additional stimulation. Feet braced on the bed and thighs parted wide, he keeps rolling his pelvis up and down almost in time with Thomas's languid thrusts, squirming and shifting back and forth.

Unexpectedly, it's the sight of those thighs - pale but not so skinny, really, there's plenty of meat and muscle there to work with - and the thought of how good and snug his cock will feel nestled between them that makes Thomas feel a sharp tug in his belly, his arousal suddenly a steady flame no longer but a raging fire.

“Oh, shit, I - I think I'm ready now.”

He starts to pull out, too abruptly for Richard's liking, perhaps, because he whimpers and promptly raises his head as if to chase Thomas's prick.

“Jesus, do you want me to spend this way after all? It wouldn't take much.”

“Fuck,” Richard groans, leaning back against the pillows. “I want to do everything.”

“And we will, love,” he hears himself replying and _where the hell did that come from_ , “but if you’re leaving me the choice -”

“I think I am, yeah.”

“Then I’d very much like to put it between your fine thighs, Mr. Ellis.”

Richard nods, breathless. “How should I -”

“On your side. Your left.” Thomas moves away so Richard can roll over. “I want my most dexterous hand on your prick when we do this.”

“Have you -” Richard clears his throat. “You wouldn’t happen to have some vaseline here, would you?”

“In my coat.” Thomas kisses his shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

But this time, Richard is quicker. He finds Thomas’s coat and the travel-sized tin inside the pocket. “I like how you came prepared, Mr. Barrow,” he says, not a hint of facetiousness, and Thomas feels encouraged to make a confession.

“D’you wanna know something?” Richard nods as he hands Thomas the tin and rejoins him on the bed, scooting back until he’s pressed to Thomas’s front. “I had it on me at the park.” 

“While you were also thinking of getting down on your knees and sucking me off.”

“That’s right,” Thomas murmurs against his hair, the shell of his ear. “I could feel it in my pocket as I talked to you and it made me want you even more.”

He feels Richard shiver. “Oh -” 

“You seem to like it, don't you, Dick,” he says while opening the tin and starting to coat his fingers. “You like to hear that I desire you more than anything else.”

“ _God_ , Thomas… yes, I admit I’m vain like that. Don’t you enjoy it when I tell you how good you make me feel… that I’ve never been fucked better by any bloke? Because I haven’t.”

“Fuck,” Thomas hisses out between gritted teeth, and he feels his cock throb in his hand reassuringly as he slicks its length and lines himself up. “Lemme have those thighs, then, and I’ll try not to come in ten seconds flat after you said _that_.”

Richard duly parts his legs a fraction so Thomas can slide between where they are meatiest. It is warm, and snug, and just about as good as anything Thomas has felt in months. “I hope they’ll give you some satisfaction, Mr. Barrow,” Richard purrs, smiling over his shoulder, and Thomas slips his idle left arm around Richard’s chest to pull him close as he delivers the first experimental trust.

They both moan, Richard’s head lolling to the front as Thomas rolls his hips back slowly and then snaps them forward, keeping close contact with Richard’s upper body and letting his lower half do the work. It is only due to the overwhelming need to see his prick sliding back and forth, not just feel it, that he starts to lean back to give himself an eyeful, but barely has he caught a glimpse or Richard’s hand reaches back and clasps his hip bone urgently, exercising a surprising amount of force. It gives him pause for a second, but he assumes Richard just wants him to get on with it, so he wraps one leg around both of Richard’s and reaches around to grasp his cock.

“Stay good and still for me, love,” he murmurs into Richard’s ear as he palms him slowly and moves his hips as steadily as he can. “Your thighs feel so perfect. You had nothing to worry about.”

“Want to be perfect for you,” Richard breathes, while doing exactly as he’s been told, barely flinching even as Thomas thrusts harder between his legs, strokes him more insistently to match. He _is_ perfect, all of it is perfect, and the exquisite friction rips a deep groan from Thomas's throat as he buries his head against Richard’s neck, biting and kissing every inch of skin he can reach.

“Like that, Thomas, yeah -” 

“Fuck, say my name again, I’m getting there -” 

“Please, Thomas, give me -”

Richard encouraging him, actually _spurring him on_ , propels things forward even more, and from there it only takes a few seconds before Thomas is humping Richard’s backside and releasing, convulsing between his thighs.

“So good for me,” he gasps, because Richard _still_ hasn’t moved his legs apart even an inch even though Thomas just came all over his thighs like a bloody savage and Richard is still waiting for his release. Trying, and struggling, to regain some clarity of mind, some control over his shaking body, he twists his hand around Richard’s prick to bring him off - every second they’re apart is one too many. “Close?” he growls, and Richard whines as he twists his hand again, nods.

“Yes, Thomas, I’m gonna come, ah -”

All of a sudden, the hand, the thought of Richard spending on the covers of this strange, unworthy bed feels whole inadequate, and Thomas feels a different urge rising in him. He scrambles to his knees and pushes Richard down on his back, hearing his soft cry of surprise and seeing a flash of wide eyes as he slips between his legs - his soiled legs, and Thomas somehow puts his hand right in the stickiness of his own release but _who fucking cares_ \- and swallows down his cock. He gags a little, not because of its weight on his tongue but the unexpected taste of vaseline, but he gets the reflex under control. It’s not as if a funny taste could put him off doing this. He swirls his tongue and sucks, bobbing his head as he casts his eyes up at Richard, who stares back for a few seconds before dropping his head back into the pillow.

“Oh, _fuck…_ ”

Thomas flattens his tongue and then the taste of vaseline is washed out by that of Richard’s release, bitter-salty and far more familiar. He drinks it up eagerly, his fingers caressing Richard’s bollocks to encourage more, but understandably he doesn't have much left to give after the way he spent all over Thomas's chest earlier. He cradles him in his mouth as Richard slowly melts into the bed and then unfortunately has to pull off and change position one last time before he falls off the foot end of this fucking bed. He settles down next to Richard and wraps his arms around him, determined not to move from this position anytime soon.

“Surprised me with that,” Richard murmurs, and Thomas smiles.

“The urge overtook me. Sorry if it seemed impetuous.”

“I like you impetuous. Please, be impetuous with me whenever the mood strikes.” Richard kisses him. “Like I said, Mr. Barrow, your instincts do you credit.”

“I’m sorry, too, for the mess between your legs. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll see if I can get you cleaned up.” 

“There's no hurry. Your mess feels good on my skin.”

“The things you say, Dick. For shame.” Thomas tries and fails to be disapproving, and Richard, of course, sees through the attempt at once. He grins.

“My apologies, but… it’s your own fault. You’ve thoroughly scrambled my brain, Mr. Barrow. I can’t be held responsible for the naughty things that come tumbling out of my mouth right now.”

“Lemme tell you a secret, Mr. Ellis,” he says, propping himself on one elbow and poking a finger at Richard’s chest for emphasis. “It’s important, so listen carefully.”

“All right, I’m listening.”

“I rather like you naughty.”

“You're in luck, then. I think I have more naughty in me that needs bringing out these next few days.”

“I enjoy a challenge.” Thomas smirks and kisses him, tracing Richard’s lips and chin with his finger. “I’ll tell you another secret. Just one more, if I may.” 

“Yes?” 

God, he hasn’t said the words out loud, in person, in more than five months, only whispered them down the telephone in the middle of the night or written them timidly in special, secret letters, and he worries his voice will fail him, but then there they are, right on the tip of his tongue - “I love you.”

At this, Richard lets out a sigh, one he may as well have been holding in forever from the sound of it.

“I love you, too.”


	12. Thomas (cont'd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day in London, another clandestine meeting. Some kink negotiation happens, and Richard introduces Thomas to an old friend.

When summer comes to London, it transforms the city - the gloom and the fog retreat and even the most inveterate Londoners slow their step as they hurry down the street and pick up their heads to notice a bird singing or appreciate for a moment the warmth of the sun warming their faces.

Thomas has other things on his mind. Such as the rate at which his pacing is wearing down the soles of his shoes and the number of cigarettes he’s chain-smoked since he got here - ‘here’ being the corner of Montpelier and Sterling, a residential area a stone’s throw from Harrods - and heard the Great Bell of Westminster toll eleven.

To be fair, it’s not Richard who is late this time - it’s Thomas who is early, _embarrassingly_ early, but when he finally received Richard’s telegram earlier this morning, after going without a sign of life the day before, he had to find the Lady Mary and make off with some excuse right away, even if it means loitering on a street corner and being looked at by suspicious residents who can clearly see he doesn’t belong.

BARROW GRANTHAM HOUSE ST JAMESS SQUARE SW1Y

CATS AWAY TIME TO PLAY 1120 MONTPELIER SQ KBRIDGE RSVP IF OK

 _This stupid telegram won't get any clearer no matter how many times you read it,_ he admonishes himself, staring morosely at the piece of paper he keeps taking from the inner pocket of his coat over and over again. As if he needed to look any more suspicious.

It's a paradox, but being in the same city, so close to each other yet still unable to spend every waking moment together, somehow feels more unbearable than living two hundred miles apart. As long as he is at Grantham House the requirements of the job help him stay focused - or distracted, depending on how you look at it - but now that he is here, unengaged and alone, his mind is jittery, whirring from one thought to the next like a bee buzzing between flowers.

He’d sent the most succinct of telegrams back agreeing to the proposed meeting, as if he didn’t have at least a dozen questions clamouring for answers. Richard had indicated not being happy about the hotel as a place to meet and Thomas had gotten the sense that he was already plotting something different, yes, but _Knightsbridge_? Soho, for all its faults and the risks it poses, at least is where they are among their own kind. Working class blokes looking for an hour’s reprieve. Here, Thomas can feel himself standing out like a sore thumb. These people - ambassadors, business magnates, second tier aristocracy - are the sort of people he would seek employment from, and that is how they regard him in return.

With any luck, they’ll think he is here for a job interview. He may as well be, from the way his gut is churning - he remembers that feeling all too painfully and too well - and the telegram in his hands could be a reference letter. That’s what he’ll tell them, at any rate, if anyone bothers to ask.

Tucking the telegram back for the umpteenth time, he decides to go for a little turn of the block rather than cave to the urge to light another cigarette, but as he’s about to round the corner he sees a tall, familiar figure coming up from Brompton Road at a jaunty pace, grin visible from a mile away. Thomas freezes where he stands and waits, fearing that his own face is giving away every nuance of what seeing that man coming towards him is making him feel. God help him, he feels like he’s _beaming._

“Let me see your watch,” he says when Richard is within speaking distance. “I think it needs repair.” 

The petty side of him enjoys the look of confusion briefly crossing Richard’s face - it feels like adequate payback for his own nerves - but the man recovers quickly. 

“As chance would have it, I know a very skilled bloke who I’m confident wouldn’t charge me a penny for the job,” he smoothly says, taking out said watch and handing it over.

Thomas inspects it for show. “Seems to be in working order,” he finally says, and gives it back. “I was convinced it must be running fast for you to be early for a change.”

Richard grins as he slips the watch back into his pocket. “You know, one day you'll just forget to tease me for my tardiness.”

“Probably,” Thomas allows with a shrug, “but that could take a while.”

“I'm fine with that.” Richard flings out an arm, indicating the proposed direction. “Shall we?”

“Where are we going?” Thomas asks, unable to curb his curiosity as they saunter along the street, forcing a calm pace as if they’re not both chomping at the bit to get to wherever it is they’re going. “I was convinced I’d read your telegram wrong. Checked at least three times there wasn’t another Montpelier Square.”

Richard glances at him askance. “I will tell you, but a warning before I do: I’m going to need you to keep an open mind and trust me.”

“If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have come.”

Beside him, he can feel Richard slowing his step for just a second. “Thank you, Thomas. That - that means a lot to me.”

“Shouldn’t be a surprise,” Thomas mutters. “So, tell me what you’ve been planning.”

“We’re going to see someone whom _I_ trust implicitly. Beatrice Greville. I’ve known her almost twenty years.”  
  
“We’re going to make a social call?” For the briefest of seconds, Thomas is gripped by the fear that he’s misconstrued Richard’s telegram and the purpose of this meeting entirely. Richard chuckles, unwittingly ruffling his feathers more. “I’m sorry, is that amusing?”

“No, Thomas, no, it’s not, I apologise. A social call this isn’t, although I think it’s inevitable that you meet her. Beatrice has an inquisitive streak, in fact I would go so far as to call her nosy. But she’s harmless, I promise you.”

“I still don’t understand,” Thomas says. “Why couldn’t we meet at the hotel like we did two days ago, or a place like it? It was fine, Richard. Two blokes like us can hardly expect more.”

“Well, I think you’re wrong there,” Richard says softly, “and I decided to try and find more. Something discreet, safe, clean. And then I thought of Beatrice. Gave her a call. She’s very comfortably settled, see. A rich widow sitting on a hoard of treasure, although she doesn’t put on airs at all. Gorgeous house and more rooms than she knows what to do with. More than enough to spare one for a couple hours.”

Finally, the picture is starting to come together in Thomas’s mind, and he’s not sure he likes it. “Richard, are you saying -”

“She’ll give us the space and the privacy we require, Thomas. She’s trustworthy, I can personally vouch for that.”

“And you know this because…”

“Because it wouldn’t be the first of my indiscretions she kept safe, and she has no reason to betray us. She’s one of our own, see. She’s had a secret lover herself for many years. Constance.” He waits a moment to allow Thomas to process this information before adding, his voice lowered to a whisper, “So trust queer solidarity if you decide you don't trust my judgment in this.”

Thomas scoffs, “She’s of the upper class, Richard. Her kind only interacts with the likes of us when they decide they want tea or the newspaper. How in the world did you even manage to become friends with someone like that?”

“It’s a long story.” They halt in front of one of the grand terraced houses and to Thomas’s astonishment, Richard makes to climb the three steps leading up to the front door.

“Then tell me the short version. Richard, shouldn’t we go around the back?”

“We have nothing to hide, Mr. Barrow. Or so we want the neighbours to believe.” He turns to face Thomas, an open and disarming expression on his face. “It’ll be fine, Thomas. Trust me.”

They go up the steps, and by some miracle nobody stops them or shouts at them asking what that the hell they think they're doing - well, not a miracle, now that he thinks about it, it's probably more due to the fact that Richard carries himself with all the confidence and grace of a nobleman, as if his place has always been on these streets and in these residences. Thomas finds that air of belonging a little harder to achieve, and suddenly thinks of Carson, and what he might say if he could see him now, walking up to an aristocrat’s front door and ringing the doorbell bold as brass.

“You’re not escaping the question, Mr. Ellis,” he hisses at Richard under his breath. “How do you know this woman?”

Richard clears his throat, and that alone rouses Thomas’s suspicions even more. “She was a friend of the first family I served in London. The house where I met Theo, and all that. She was often a guest there.”

_“And?”_

“And I used to shag her late husband.” Richard glances at him; Thomas gapes back. “Told you it was quite the story. I’ll tell you the rest of it, Thomas, but later.”

“But -”

“Later,” Richard reiterates from the corner of his mouth, and then conjures his brightest smile as the door opens and a maid appears. “Messrs. Ellis and Barrow. Lady Greville is expecting us.”

The woman nods and lets them in, a slightly knowing look in her eyes Thomas does his best to ignore. “M’lady is in her sitting room,” she says, “if you’ll follow me?” 

Every step he takes as they're led through corridors and passageways seems to set him further on edge - Richard asked for trust and _fuck_ , he's trying, but his mind is unhelpfully conjuring memories of Chris Webster, and the warehouse, of things his gut told him seemed too fucking good to be true and, and - 

He almost jumps when Richard's fingers brush his hand as they walk, so fleetingly it may very well have been accidental, but when Thomas looks up Richard is looking straight at him with an earnest expression.

“We don’t have to stay,” he says, a murmur for Thomas’s ears only. “Just say the word, a’ight?”

For some reason Thomas can’t quite fathom, the offer of an out only makes him more determined not to take it. “Are you worried I’m going to get cold feet and bolt?”

“Surprised you haven’t yet, to be quite honest.”

“Meant it when I said I trusted you. And I can tell you trust _her_.”

Richard raises both eyebrows. “Yeah? How so?”

“Because you used our real names.”

Richard looks stunned for a second - stunned and guilty. “I - I never even thought of using different ones.”

Thomas nods. “And coming from Mr. Circumspect, that’s a good enough reason for me.”

“Sirs?” The maid has stopped in front of one of the doors further down the hallway. “M’lady is waiting. In here.”

“Thank you,” Richard says, and quickens his step. Thomas follows one pace behind.

At the centre of the handsomely furnished room sits the lady of the house, an attractive blond woman who rises when they enter and flings out her arms in a shockingly unaristocratic manner. “Richard, darling!”

“Hello, Beatrice,” grins Richard, and crosses the room towards her while Thomas hangs back a bit and watches, observing these two unlikeliest of friends. But friends they clearly are, and fond friends.

“How have you been?” Richard inquires, as Lady Greville stands tiptoe on her dainty heeled slippers and kisses him on the cheek. She is dressed in a garish outfit Lady Grantham would abhor, a long, wide-sleeved robe of loud colours and exotic patterns that sits very roomily on her slim frame. Her make-up and hair are perfectly done, though, her jewellery almost plain in contrast yet tasteful and perfectly chosen, and somehow she wears the eccentric outfit with aplomb and grace.

“Dismal,” she says in reply to his question, though her beaming expression belies her answer. “London in the summer is _such_ a drag.”

“Then go to your villa in Nice.” 

“Oh, I would, but you know how it is - the place is crawling with French people,” she huffs, and they both laugh. 

“You look stunning," Richard says after a beat. 

“Whenever do I not? But please, keep saying it, flattery is good for my complexion.”

“You know I will. That robe is quite something.”

“Do you like it? My tailor says it’s the latest. Imported Indian silk.” She rubs his arm. “I was going to scold you for not visiting me in so long, but my stars, I can’t bring myself to now that I see you. You don’t look so well, darling.”

Richard ducks his head slightly, and Thomas’s ears prick up. He too had seen something he didn’t like when he observed Richard at the park, but it’s disconcerting that he isn’t the only one to pick up on it. That means it’s not just in his head but visible to others as well.

“Been a busy week, Beatrice,” he says, a little too brightly. “It’ll get better now that most of the household has flown the coop. Leaves me with a bit of time to visit old friends.”

“Oh, you rascal. We both know why you’re really here, and it’s not to see me.” She glances at the maid. “Don’t you have something to do, Mabel?”

“Will the gentlemen take tea, M’lady?”

“I don’t think so, dear. Go to the kitchen and find cook, I’m sure she’ll have some task you can help her with.”

After the door has clicked shut, Lady Greville turns to Thomas. “Now, Richard, why don’t you introduce me to your friend.”

Richard takes a step to the side so Thomas can approach and let himself be sized up like a piece of live meat at a cattle market, which he does somewhat reluctantly and only because Richard’s hopeful smile compels him.

“This is Thomas Barrow, Beatrice. Thomas, my friend, Lady Beatrice Greville.”

 _“Enchantée,”_ she chirps, studying him through her binocle. The theatrical gesture jars, but the deference ingrained by decades of service easily beats his irritation: he bows, even if somewhat stiffly, his training and proclivity for proper etiquette stronger than any inborn distrust of the aristocracy. “May I call you Thomas?”

Thomas can practically feel Richard holding his breath beside him, but this smile plastered to his face isn’t going anywhere. “If you wish. I’m not going to call you Beatrice, though.”

“That’s quite all right. It took Richard a while, too.” She speaks lightly, but her sharp eyes never leave his, and before he can respond or even fully decipher the implication of her words she continues, “How long have you known Richard?”

Again, she seems to be asking more than the question that’s out in the open. He lifts his chin slightly. “A year, milady.”

“A year, my word.” She seems more impressed with that than he thinks the answer warrants, and she turns to Richard with a teasing smile. “Don Juan no more, I gather? Used to be a time I heard about a new chap every other week - not to mention the ones I didn't hear about.”

Richard, to his credit, looks appropriately mortified by the impertinence. “Haven’t been for a while, if I ever was,” he mutters. “And you’re not helping, Beatrice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, while looking not the least bit sorry. “Well, I understand you two would like to use the upstairs for a couple hours, yes? Have a little privacy?” They both acquiesce with a sheepish silence. It’s about as embarrassing a moment as Thomas has ever experienced, but he’s running on pure hormones at this point and by God, he’ll suffer what embarrassment he must to get Richard in a room, alone. Preferably in the next two minutes or less.

“Come on, then, I’ll give you the tour.”

 _We need a tour?_ Thomas mouths to Richard as they follow Lady Greville out the room, to which Richard responds with a resigned smile and a shrug.

“Don’t worry, dears,” she titters upon them reaching the first floor landing, where yet more signs of riches jump into view. “I will leave you alone soon enough, but I would like you to know the lay of the land. It will allow you to move more freely. I know you're quite familiar with the layout, Richard, but I did make some changes since you were here last.”

The glaring implication being that Richard has used Lady Greville’s house as a rendez-vous place before. Thomas coughs.

“That… that was a while ago,” Richard offers, looking over at Thomas.

“Define ‘a while’.”

“Longer than a year,” Lady Greville smoothly replies in Richard’s stead, and smiles as she goes on like this exchange never happened. “Oh, and don’t worry about the maid, or anyone else in my employment. They’ve all been with me for years, and they’ve been instructed not to go upstairs when there are guests over. You won’t be disturbed.” After these remarks specifically for Thomas, she once again addresses them both, “You have your choice of rooms here, but personally I’d recommend that one.” She gestures at one of the doors. “It is my second favourite of the guest rooms.”

“What about your first favourite?” Thomas blurts, hearing Richard chortling and choking beside him. “Already taken?”

“You wouldn’t like that room,” she says, not put out by his impertinence in the slightest. “For your information, Thomas Barrow, I don’t run a house of ill repute here.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply -”

“And over there,” she continues, speaking over him, “is the guest bathroom, fitted with a bathtub, naturally. Constance and I never have problems with ours, for you two it’ll be a… tighter squeeze, I suppose, but I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Thomas feels himself blush violently, but it's nothing compared to the way Richard groans an exasperated _“Beatrice”_ and briefly hides his face against his palm. Which, besides being adorable to see, somehow also helps Thomas regain some composure of his own. This all feels like a test, one that makes him want to prove he won't be intimidated that easily. So despite his discomfort, he doesn’t hide his face when Lady Greville turns around as if to see for herself the effect her words have sorted.

“I’m sure we’ll be all right from here, milady,” he says evenly, because he has yet to reach a verdict on whether or not he likes this woman. “Thank you.” 

Lady Greville arches an eyebrow in a way that somehow manages to convey both disdain and admiration. “I have to say it's not often I get dismissed in my own home.” 

“I meant no disre-” 

“Oh, I think you did, and though a part of me finds it charming, another feels compelled to point out that I've known you all of five minutes, Mr. Barrow, and it's only thanks to Richard that you're in my house as a guest.”

Once upon a time, Thomas may have served up a rebuke - his employment doesn’t depend on this woman, and neither her grand old title nor her grand old house intimidate him in the slightest - but the last thing he wants is to cause trouble for Richard, who prepared this surprise so they could be alone. So he keeps his tongue in check.

After a beat of silence, Lady Greville turns to Richard, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else this very minute. “Well, this one will keep you on your toes. Tongue on him as sharp as his cheekbones. I can see why you like him.”

Richard's shoulders lose tension visibly. “Thank you, Beatrice. Really.”

On the surface, it appears he is thanking her for her hospitality. But what she says next makes Thomas think that is not, or only partly the case.

“Ian would've been happy for you too.” Richard blinks, and something passes between them that Thomas is no part of. He’s on the outside of this exchange, watching, guessing. Then she says, “I had the maid lay out clean towels and soap in the bathroom. Take all the time you need. You’re my guests, and what happens under this roof, stays under this roof.”

Then she goes, leaving Thomas and Richard by themselves in that strange gilded hallway, gauging each other like two people who’ve only just met.

 _It’ll pass,_ Thomas reminds himself. _It’ll get better._

“So,” Richard finally breaks the silence with a slightly forced smile, “which room…?”

Thomas shrugs. “You choose.”

“That one, then.” He indicates the one Lady Greville recommended, and they go in, Richard closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“Lock it.”

“Thomas, she just promised -”

“She’s just down the stairs, Richard, as are the servants, God knows how many of them. I am not _that_ trusting. Lock the fucking door.”

Because the day he’ll feel comfortable doing this behind an unlocked door - or God forbid, with an _open_ one - is the day pigs will fly. He feels himself relaxing slightly at the sound of the lock turning, and he puts down his hat, taking in the room. It’s furnished and decorated entirely in the art nouveau style, and visually it’s a lot to digest at first glance. “What are the other rooms like?”

“They’re decorated in different styles. Baroque, rococo, the impressionists, and so on. Beatrice doesn’t shun the big gesture, as you probably already guessed.”

“And the mysterious first favourite room? What’s there?”

“I’d blush to tell you.”

“So you’ve seen it.” Thomas turns around, unbuttoning his coat. “Now I must know.” His grin fades somewhat when he sees Richard dawdling by the door, eyes downcast. “What’s wrong?”

At this, Richard sighs. “I - I’m not sure I haven’t made a mistake arranging this meeting place. Maybe we would’ve done better going back to the hotel after all, as Messrs. Bryce and Blake.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The hotel left things to be desired, but it was neutral terrain, I guess. This is… personal, perhaps too personal.” He glances up at Thomas, unsure. “Beatrice, God love her, she… she can be a bit much, I know. I only hope you weren’t too mortified by it all.”

“She is quite a character.” Thomas puts his coat over a nearby chair. Inside the inner pocket, he feels the weight and shape of the _Leaves of Grass_ copy Richard gave him - he’d brought it thinking he’d have some time to kill waiting for him, but he’d been too jittery to take it out. “Actually… she reminds me of someone else I know.”

Richard blinks. “Oh?”

“And I mean that in a very good way. Be quite a treat, I imagine, watching you two hamming it up for an hour or two.” He puts his hands in his pockets, waiting for Richard to compute what he just said.

“So… you’re all right with this?”

“I was all right at Downton, at the farmhouse and at the hotel. I reckon I’ll be all right here too, once I get used to the idea we’re going to do this with someone just a flight of stairs away actually _knowing_.”

A tentative grin appears on Richard’s face. “Beatrice is not so easily shocked, Thomas. Two blokes buggering isn’t the wildest thing these walls have been witness to.”

“Care to elaborate, Dick?” All of a sudden, the revelation Richard made at the front door resurfaces in Thomas’s mind and memory. “What was that about you fucking her husband?”

“Are you sure you want to hear that story right _now_?”

“Have nothing else to do, do I?” Thomas shrugs. “Not until you get unglued from that door and come closer so I can get my fucking hands on you finally.” 

He distinctly remembers telling Richard he keep no tally in their relationship, and he _doesn't_ , honest, but - two days ago it was him who broke the stalemate and took those precious few steps separating them, and he'd like not to do it again. He’d like Richard to return the favour.

Richard blushes. “Oh - I’m sorry,” he murmurs, as though embarrassed by his own lack of initiative, and Thomas doesn’t like when he does that - apologising when he’s got nothing to apologise for, acting like he’s failed when he hasn’t. There’s a remark to that effect on the tip of his tongue, but he holds back a second too long and the moment passes as Richard crosses the floor towards him, smiling expectantly.

“Just so we’re clear,” Thomas says, “you still owe me the story.”

“And you will have it, Mr. Barrow, I promise. To repay you for what you just put up with, if nothing else.”

“As if I wouldn’t put up with a lot more than an eccentric old flapper to get a bed like that,” Thomas says, because the luxurious king-sized fourposter was the first thing he registered when they entered the room, “and an hour or two alone with you to try it out.”

“An eccentric -” Richard chokes out laughter. “Oh my, she’d love _that._ ”

That’s quite enough talk about their hostess, Thomas decides.

“Mind over matter, Ellis,” he murmurs, trailing his hand along the sleeve of Richard's coat. “You’ve already fallen behind. What are you doing, still wearing this?” He can hear Richard’s breath catch in his throat, and he wonders if Richard will be requiring orders today. “Take it off.”

Barely has he finished speaking or Richard’s fingers are slipping down the front of his coat, undoing the buttons one by one. _So that’s a resounding ‘yes’, then._

“And the rest of it.”

With barely a second of hesitation, Richard’s fingers move on to the buttons of his jacket, then up to his tie. But when Thomas goes to follow his example, Richard reaches out and stops him. “I’d like to,” he says softly. “If I may.”

Thomas holds up his hands, smirking. “I gladly surrender to the hands of the second best valet in England.”

It is not the best joke in the world, nor the most appropriately timed, but it does break what ice there still was left after that false start. Richard huffs, a hint of his usual suave smirk appearing on his lips. 

“I’d rather be first best at everything in your eyes, Mr. Barrow.”

“You’ll have to work hard. I’m not impressed so easily.” Thomas’s face grows warm, and he wonders - not for the first time - where the fuck this is all coming from. He is not truly so hungry for power, is he? Surely this is all just play and not some sick need to have the upper hand?

Whatever it is, though, it affects Richard quite a bit, and it’s that becoming blush appearing on his face that Thomas finds so addictive. Slowly, he sits upon the bed to watch as Richard disrobes and await his turn, almost wishing he had a lit cigarette between his fingers to take leisurely drags of.

“Don’t drop your clothes on the floor like you did at the hotel,” he drawls when he sees Richard wanting to do just that. “It’s slovenly and unbecoming a valet. Put them away nicely.”

Richard sticks out a rebellious lip, but does as Thomas instructs, stripping down with measured efficiency. Finally he bends down to unclip the garters and peel off his hose. Then he straightens up wearing just his underpants, the thin fabric tenting at the front.

Thomas nods in response to Richard’s questioning glance. “Those too.”

Richard wavers for just a second before opening the fly of his underpants and pushing them down his hips, avoiding Thomas’s eyes until he’s completely bare, his hands idle by his sides. Thomas can see him breathing somewhat erratically, his gaze darting this way and that, and feels a flash of guilt about the inequality of the situation.

“My turn,” he says, “c’mere.”

Richard doesn't need to be told twice. In one stride he is between Thomas's legs, his fingers quickly starting to unloosen the tie. He has to stoop slightly to do so, while Thomas has to lean his head back to keep looking straight at him, and he likes it; he likes how they seem to be straining towards each other. He brings his hands to Richard's hips without a thought, moving his fingers in a slight caress, gradually expanding his range to the small of Richard's back, the raised tissue of the scars there feeling smooth under his fingers, and then to his arse. Richard sighs and shifts against him when he squeezes a buttock, and he feels responding heat pooling in his groin.

“Making it harder to concentrate on my task than it needs to be, Mr. Barrow,” Richard mutters as he slips Thomas’s collar from his neck. “Your hands are very distracting.”

Thomas grins. “I’m not here to make things easier for you,” he says innocently, and massages Richard’s buttock with the whole of his hand to prove his point. When the tips of his fingers tease the crack, Richard’s thumbs turn clumsy all of sudden, struggling with one of the buttons on Thomas’s shirt. Thomas can’t help teasing him, “Is my common man’s shirt too crude for your delicate fingers, Mr. Ellis? Not as supple as His Majesty’s fine silks?”

“His Majesty doesn’t usually fondle my arse as I undress him,” Richard counters, and Thomas laughs freely, unhindered by any deference to the King and Emperor.

“And you’re not nude when you do either, I hope.” Richard just rolls his eyes, making Thomas grin more broadly. He ceases tormenting him, though, assisting in the removing of his shirt and raising his arms as Richard guides his undershirt up over his head. Then he leans back on both hands and watches as Richard goes to his knees to unlace the shoes. The silence is starting to jar a bit, but he resists the urge to fill it with more wisecracks, watching Richard’s face as he works, the downcast eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he says suddenly, and blushes when Richard looks up in surprise. “I mean it, Dick. I like watching you. Makes me calm.”

He’s not sure why he’s saying these things and he dreads having to explain them, _especially now,_ but Richard is always gracious under flattery. (No, it’s not flattery, it’s far more than that, and it’s _genuine_ besides, but it’s no use getting hung up on these things or freaking himself out thinking them when he’s got to keep his head in the game.) “Get you out of these,” Richard murmurs, rubbing Thomas’s thigh, meaning the trousers.

Thomas wants to get up to make it easier, but Richard just moves on seamlessly from the shoes to his belt. His fingers have found their confidence again, and Thomas only has to lift his arse off the bed to assist as Richard skillfully peels his slacks and then his underpants off him, leaving just the hose and garters. Richard had been quick and efficient about removing his own, but now that it’s Thomas’s turn, he’s in no rush at all, just sitting for a moment caressing Thomas’s legs, his hands sliding up over his knees.

“Taking your sweet time,” Thomas observes, somewhat impatiently, to which Richard just smiles.

“I can’t help liking your legs, Mr. Barrow.” After a few more moments, Richard detaches the hose from the garter and pulls it from Thomas’s foot. Then he slips his hand behind Thomas’s bare leg and guides it up, kissing the inside of the knee, the calf.

“What are you doing,” Thomas murmurs, feeling self-conscious and yet strangely stirred. His half-erect cock grows slightly heavier on his hip as Richard repeats the same series of actions on the other leg, including the kissing. His head lolls back heavily, the weight of his torso shifting from his hands to his elbows. He is liking these attentions a whole lot more than he would’ve guessed. “Never had a bloke kissing my legs before.”

“You haven’t been loved properly then,” Richard says, and Thomas can feel his warm breath on his skin. “Will you fuck me, Thomas?”

With some effort, Thomas lifts up his head and meets Richard’s gaze. God, he felt those words in his belly just now. “You’re up for it today?” Richard nods, his gaze steady and sure. “All right. There’s just this one thing -” Thomas holds out his left hand as casually as he can. “You forgot this.”

After a beat, Richard reaches out and opens the fastenings of Thomas’s glove with gentle fingers, pulling it off of him and placing it on top of the pile of discarded items as he would any other piece of clothing. The look in his eyes betrays he recognises the significance of the moment, but he doesn’t remark on it, for which Thomas is grateful. Being comfortable with his hand bare is one thing, drawing attention to it quite another. Still, he doesn’t quite know why, he reaches for Richard with that hand and slips his fingers through his hair, and when Richard responds by turning his head and kissing his scarred palm, he realises that’s exactly what he wanted but couldn’t articulate to save his life.

All of a sudden, his heart feels like it will burst. “Want you closer,” he stammers, and Richard grasps his left hand, using it to pull him to his feet. Here they are, face to face, breathing the same air, and then they're kissing, not with lust but something sharper, sweeter. It's a tremulous kiss, but there's nothing hesitant about it. Richard's lips are soft, so soft, and slightly chapped, and Thomas can't get enough of their taste, the warmth of his mouth. He can feel Richard’s hands roaming over his back, finally settling at the base of his spine as he pulls him close. His own are moving restlessly along Richard’s shoulders, feeling their shape beneath his fingers, occasionally gripping fingerfuls of his hair as he sighs against his mouth, relieved.

_There you are. Here I am. I love you._

It’s perfect. Even their erections standing awkwardly between them can’t change that, but once the kiss runs its course, the mood takes another turn. “Did you come prepared this time, too?” Richard asks, eyes somewhat dazed.

_Right. Time to get practical._

“In my coat,” Thomas says, breathless from the kiss, and steals another one because he’s feeling greedy. “Don’t move. I’ll get it.”

He is back in a moment, with the vaseline. Richard eyes him from his spot by the bed with a cheeky smile that gives Thomas pause. “What’s that gleeful look on your face for, Mr. Ellis?”

“I was admiring you, is all.” Richard kisses him slowly, and Thomas’s arms slip around his waist of their own accord. “It’s a job best done from a distance. A small one,” he adds when Thomas frowns slightly. “Tiny.”

“You’re full of nonsense,” Thomas mutters, and Richard chuckles against his lips.

“Are you steady on your feet, Mr. Barrow?” 

“I like to think so, wh-”

He doesn't manage to finish asking 'why', because Richard honest to God _jumps into his arms_ without further warning, locking his legs around Thomas's waist and clinging on with frankly unexpected strength. Exclaiming, Thomas staggers on his feet and damn near topples backwards from the impact, his heart almost jumping out of his chest as he regains his footing by a hair.

“Fuck,” he breathes, swaying slightly as the muscles in his arms and legs begin to protest, because Richard may be slender but he is no lightweight by any stretch of the imagination. He is over six feet tall, for a start, which would knock the breath out of anyone.

Thankfully, the bed is right there, and Thomas eventually manages to take one controlled step, shifting his weight forward carefully and putting his knee up on the mattress for support. Then it’s a matter of gravity, and they both tumble down into the bed, Richard giving a loud _‘oof!’_ as Thomas lands on top of him and Thomas thanking his lucky stars that ended as well as it did.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re -” Thomas scrambles up on his elbows to take some of his weight off and survey Richard’s face in alarm. “Jesus, is your back all right?”

“I’m fine,” Richard replies, casually as anything, gazing up at him with a glint in his eye. Unbearably smug, unbearably hot. “Knew you’d catch me.”

For a second, Thomas wants to strangle him. “What do you mean, you _knew_? I could just as easily have dropped you on your arse, or worse. Damn near did.” God, but he’s angry, his frantic heart pumping pure adrenaline through his veins. “Who do you take me for, a strongman at a circus?”

“You’re my Thomas,” Richard says, like that is enough, and to him, perhaps it is. Thomas doesn’t really know how to respond other than by kissing him.

“Don't think you'll always manage to escape repercussions by being so darling,” he murmurs when they finally part.

“At least we know the bed’s sturdy.” Richard smiles angelically, like he isn’t at least fifteen years too old to be making jokes like that, but Thomas will forgive him that, too. 

“Here,” he says, locating the tin of vaseline nearby and passing it into Richard’s hand. He nods in answer to Richard’s quizzical look. “You’ll prepare yourself and I’ll get to just watch. After what you just pulled on me, I think I am entitled to a little treat, don’t you?”

He can see that he’s caught Richard off guard with this somewhat abrupt turn, so he kisses him slowly to give him some time to adjust. Then he gently caresses the side of his face and rolls off of him.

“Go on. Let’s see if all these months you really trained like I told you to.”

A blush spreads down Richard’s neck as he props himself up against one of the end posts of the bed, but it’s clear it’s from being turned on rather than embarrassed. Thomas gets settled at the opposite end, flinging one of the pillows at Richard so he’ll be more comfortable. Then he eases back into a reclining position, sliding his foot along one of Richard’s legs as he watches him opening the vaseline and warming some between his fingers. “All right?” he checks, scrutinising Richard’s face closely, and Richard nods, letting his thighs fall a little wider and slipping his hand between them, slicking the area surrounding his hole.

“Have you done this since the day before last?” Richard shakes his head, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he nudges the tip of his middle finger in. “Brought yourself off at all?” Same answer. “I haven’t either.” 

He makes the confession without thinking much of it, surprised when Richard whimpers and pushes his finger deeper. “D’you like that idea? That I saved myself for this moment?”

“Fuck,” Richard breathes, “I really do. Almost as much as I like the idea you’re going to come inside of me.”

Thomas is glad that his confession seems to have roused Richard from his silence. It always worries him when Richard goes nonverbal like that. “You’ll have to be thorough in your preparation, Mr. Ellis. Get yourself good and ready.”

“For you can I do thorough, Mr. Barrow,” Richard grins, and sets about proving just that, spending the next several minutes leisurely working himself open with the one finger before even adding the second and really starting to get into it. Leaning his head back and slipping both fingers back and forth inside himself, he offers a sight to be mesmerised by and Thomas is exactly that, _mesmerised,_ feeling like his pulse is speeding up in tandem with Richard’s intent strokes, and every time he sees those fingers twisting, spreading, he feels it in his own belly.

Richard has been _really_ good so far, but the way he’s constantly changing the angle of his wrist, rolling up his hips in restless counterpoint as if frustratedly seeking something that keeps eluding him, gives Thomas the impression they’re getting close to a tipping point. 

And sure enough -

“Damn, I... ” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, but... fuck, I need _more_ ,” Richard whines, and that last syllable is like a needle to Thomas’s gut. “May I add a third, please?”

“I’m not sure why you need my permission now,” Thomas says lightly, “when you didn’t ask for the second one, either.”

Richard hand stills. “Didn’t I?” His memory seems to provide the answer to his own question, and his face crumples a bit. “I’m - I’m sorry.”

From looking at him, one would think he’s committed an unforgivable crime, and Thomas likes it even less than he did earlier. “Don’t do that, Richard,” he says softly.

“What do you me-”

“Don’t say sorry.” Thomas’s stomach clenches, and he hates spoiling the mood, but this needs out, now. “Don’t… don’t make yourself _small_ like that, all right? It’s not doing it for me.”

A few moments pass, only Richard’s breathing audible. “But when I let you down -”

“You don't let me down,” Thomas says, more vehemently than he meant to. “Never, and especially when we are... like this. I can’t bear to have you grovel for me, d’you understand?”

“I think so.” Richard swallows slowly. “But it won’t be easy to stop. It just slips out most of the time. Force of habit.”

“You could try saying something else, if you need to say something when you feel this way.” Thomas rolls over and scoots closer, sliding his hand up along Richard’s leg. “Say you’ll do better next time.”

“All right, I’ll - I’ll try.” Richard breathes out as Thomas kisses the inside of his knee, reaching out and caressing his arm, feeling the muscles move under the skin as he timidly picks up the movement again with the two fingers he’s got inside himself.

“Go on, then,” Thomas encourages. “I wanna see you do it with three.”

“Would you pass me the -” Richard begins, and Thomas picks up the vaseline tin with a questioning glance at Richard’s face. “Yeah.”

“Do you want me to put it on you?” he asks on a whim, and the way Richard's breath catches renders a verbal response unnecessary, but he awaits one all the same.

“I'd like that very much.”

“Give me your hand.” Thomas takes a scoop of the stuff, letting it warm on his own skin before grasping the fingers Richard just withdrew from his body, rubbing it slowly over and between. Slicking them generously and wiping the excess on his own thigh. “You can be very thorough yourself,” Richard teases.

“When it concerns your comfort, Mr. Ellis, I’d rather do too much than too little.”

“It’s a bit odd, doing this with you right there,” Richard admits as he brings his hand back into position, the first two fingers slipping in easily to be quickly joined by the third. “But this is better. I like having you close.”

“I’ll stay right here, then.” Thomas lightly strokes Richard’s hip, watching his face as it slowly takes on a relieved expression, the added pressure of the third finger clearly making the difference he was after. “Is that good, love?” he asks fondly, letting his fingers wander from Richard’s hip up along his side. His left hand he sets atop Richard’s thigh. “I’m enjoying watching you do it, too. Knowing you’ll be ready for me soon.”

Richard whimpers, “Can’t fucking wait,” and Thomas kisses him, feeling Richard moan as he slips his tongue in and tastes his mouth. He trails his fingers up along Richard’s shoulder, feeling the shifting of the muscle as he works his arm insistently, and the idea of what Richard is doing to himself is so fucking good that he feels lightheaded with it.

It also makes him want to do more. Not just as a reward for Richard’s diligence, his courage, or even for arranging this meeting place - which, admittedly, is about as safe as they’re going to get - but simply because Richard Ellis deserves everything Thomas has to offer, little though it may be.

“Keep going,” he says, low, as he pulls away from Richard’s lips to kiss his neck, beneath the sharpness of the jaw. Richard sighs and turns his head, his breathing deepening as Thomas showers the length of his neck with kisses, then his shoulder, his clavicle. When he gets even lower than that, he can feel Richard starting to move restlessly, arching his back even, like he’s chasing Thomas’s mouth, inviting it to a favoured spot.

Thomas thinks he knows what he’s being asked to do.

Richard cries out with such relief at the first brush of Thomas's lips against his nipple that Thomas can’t help echoing it with a moan of his own.

“Oh, God, yes, right there, thank you -”

“You could've asked me sooner.”

“W-wanted to see if you remembered.”

Of course he remembers. He likes to think he remembers everything he discovered at the farmhouse, through observation and experimentation.

“As if I’d forget these sweet responses.” Thomas kisses the skin next to the nipple and then the nipple itself, brushing his lips across and then parting them to drag the tip of his tongue around. From Richard’s throat issues a delirious moan that hitches when Thomas closes his mouth over the nipple and sucks, simultaneously lifting his hand to its twin and caressing it with his thumb.

“Oh, _fuck…_ ” Richard arches off the pillow, pushing himself against Thomas’s mouth almost aggressively. Thomas pulls away a moment and Richard drops back with a dismayed moan.

“My, my, aren’t we tense, love.” Thomas chuckles, drawing his fingers across Richard’s chest. “Am I not taking good care of you?”

“No one’s taken care of me like you do,” Richard says, somehow both earnest and coy. “Please, Thomas, keep going.”

Thomas kisses his chest reassuringly. “So, this is better than me just watching you, is it?”

“God, yes, so much better.” 

“Try to lie still.” Thomas blows gently over the still-wet nipple and laps at it once before taking it back into his mouth. As he starts sucking slightly, he can _feel_ Richard forcing restraint. The only part about him that isn’t still is the hand between his legs, pumping insistently with three fingers. When Thomas is sure Richard is controlling himself, he switches nipples, sucking on one and playing with the other, rolling it between his fingertips.

“God, Thomas,” Richard moans, “I’ve missed your fucking mouth so much.”

Thomas pulls off with a smack of the lips, leaving the nipple red and tender and stiff. “You’re swearing a lot,” he observes. “You swear when you’re enjoying yourself.”

“So do you.”

“I always swear.” Thomas grins and moves across to the other nipple. “I like making you cuss, though.”

“Er,” Richard says quickly, and blushes as Thomas pauses, mouth hovering over his chest. “Maybe it is better if you stop, before -” Thomas arches an eyebrow. “Before I come all over myself.”

“Really?” Thomas leans up incredulously. “You could, just from this?”

Richard’s mouth twitches wryly. “I’m starting to think I could.”

_Well. There’s a thing to file away for later._

“I hope you realise I find that idea intriguing rather than off-putting,” Thomas tells him, but he pulls away. “Are you ready for me?”

Richard swallows and nods. “Yes.”

He picks up the vaseline and places it in Richard’s hand. “Your turn to put it on me. Be thorough here, too. It’s been months since you had my cock.”

“Longest bloody months of my life,” Richard mutters as he sets himself to the task. Thomas takes a breath, the firm touch of Richard’s fingers reminding him he’s been hard and aching himself for quite a while now.

“How - how do you want to…?”

“Hmm.” Thomas considers for a moment, enjoying the possibilities. “I’ve never had you from behind, have I? On your knees?”

“No, I -” Richard licks his lips. “I’d rather look you in the face, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.” Thomas discards the idea, sensing that this is not something that should be tried and negotiated. “Tell me what you’d like.”

Richard looks surprised for a moment, as if he’d been bracing himself for more insistence on Thomas's part, but he switches to a coquettish grin almost seamlessly. “Can I ride you?”

“Christ,” Thomas mutters, and leans back on his elbows, “be my fucking guest, Ellis.”

He vaguely registers that his head is closer to the foot end of the bed than the headboard and his body is stretched out in a diagonal, but damn it, they have all this space at their disposal, who cares how they use it? If Richard wants to ride him here and now, he's bloody well going to let him.

“Thanks, Mr. Barrow,” Richard smiles, straddling him and briefly leaning down for a kiss. “You're very kind for indulging me.” 

He tries to form a retort, but watching Richard line up his cock against his own hole proves to be rather distracting. He goes in quite easily, testament to a job well done, and Richard breathes out as he slowly sinks down on Thomas’s cock, perfectly controlled. Barely has he bottomed out or he lifts up again, his facial muscles pulled tight with concentration and want. He measures it so that the connection stays intact, groaning as he fills himself back up.

“Shit,” Thomas gasps after a few more thrusts like these, taken aback by this relentless pace Richard is setting from the outset, “go easy, love, I’d like to last a bit longer than five seconds.”

“I - I’ll try.” At the end of the next downstroke, Richard allows himself a few moments’ pause, resting in Thomas’s lap. “God, you feel just right inside me. So fucking perfect, Thomas.”

Thomas takes a few deep breaths, but the pressure in his balls barely abates. He reaches for Richard’s hand and threads his fingers through his. “Give me just a few moments.”

“Tell me when.” 

“What?”

Richard swallows. “Tell me when I can start again.”

 _Oh._

“You… you want me to give you orders? Instructions?” 

“Fuck, Thomas… yes, please, yes.”

There’s honest to God yearning contained in Richard’s response, and Thomas closes his eyes just for a second, trying to reach for that place inside himself. He’s sure he can do it, he _wants_ to do it, but he wants to do it _right_ and therein lies the rub. This isn’t a simple matter of flipping a switch, not today at least. But when he opens his eyes and sees Richard looking at him - waiting, trusting he’ll come through - it steels his determination.

“All right,” he says, unlinking his fingers from Richard’s and setting his hands on his waist instead. “You'll be good, won't you,” he says, deliberately pitching his voice lower. “I waited months to be inside you again and you'll let me savour it as long as you can.” Richard closes his eyes and nods. “I need you to say it, love.”

“Yes, Thomas, I promise. I want to be so good for you.”

“So you’ll go slow, won’t you? And not get impatient.”

“Yes, I’ll go slow. Promise.”

“I trust you, Dick. You can start moving again, nice and calm. That’s it, love.” After a few beats, seeing that Richard is holding to his word, Thomas takes his hands off his waist and takes a gamble, joining them behind his own head instead, watching Richard move in his lap like entranced, with slow rolls of his pelvis. 

“Is, is this all right,” Richard asks. Voice tight, jaw slack.

“You’re doing very well, Dick. Keep at it. You’ve been so very good with the preparations, haven’t you? You’re taking me with ease.”

He really is, and Thomas feels heat blooming in his belly when he catches a glimpse of himself between Richard’s legs, starkly erect and glistening. God, he never feels better about himself than when he is with Richard like this, being wanted, wanting in return.

“Don’t you just wish we had a mirror _here_ ,” he muses aloud, and Richard groans.

“There’s one in the baroque room, I think,” he grins recklessly. “We could try that one tomorrow, if you like.”

“This is all very decadent, isn’t it?” Thomas raises his eyes to the canopy of the bed for a second. “The house, the finery. Rooms to choose from.”

“We’ve served decadent all our lives, Mr. Barrow. I say we can enjoy a taste of it for ourselves without scruples.”

Thomas wants to tell him the trappings are just that, that this opulence isn’t _them_ and that he’d trade all this for the farmhouse or a place like it in a heartbeat, but he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful or make Richard doubt himself, especially at a time like this. “I’m enjoying this,” he says instead, drawing his knees up slightly, “enjoying you, Dick. And I think I’m going to enjoy that bathtub later on, if we have time.”

“I’d like that,” Richard gasps, leaning back slightly to seek that spot inside of him, “please, can I -”

“Yes, darling, take it as you like it.” Thomas can tell the exact moment the head of his cock grinds against that hidden spot, as Richard’s walls stutter around him and Richard lets out a primal sound of pleasure that goes straight to Thomas’s gut.

“Oh, fuck, Thomas, right _there_.”

“Keep going,” Thomas grits out, and Richard does exactly that, rocking slowly back and forth with his hands braced on Thomas’s thighs. “Make yourself feel good, kitten. I just have the one request.”

“What - what’s that?”

“When you feel like you’re going to come, I need you to stop yourself. You can do that, can’t you?” He grins when Richard gives an exasperated moan, realising he’s giving him quite a challenge. “Let’s see how good you can be.”

“What if I fail?”

“Then I won’t be giving you that responsibility again next time, will I?”

Some part of him still balks at talking to Richard this way, but the stern answer seems to give Richard exactly the reassurance he needed. He continues with those carefully controlled movements - determined to drive the both of them mad, it seems, as he constantly switches between going up and down on Thomas’s prick with languorous rolls and twists of his hips, and moments where he seems to be frantically searching for that elusive perfect angle.

When he finds it, though, it’s only moments before he makes a sound like he’s being strangled and stutters to a full halt, back arched as he grasps the head of his cock and squeezes so hard his knuckles actually turn white. He curses, and Thomas feels guilty for just a moment, but it passes when Richard then laughs breathlessly, euphorically.

“Oh my _God_ , Thomas.”

Thomas reaches down to caress his thigh soothingly. “Did you see the gates of Heaven for a moment, love?”

“I’m still seeing them,” Richard croaks, although he’s slowly relinquishing his grip on himself. “Fuck, that was…” The right word seems to elude him, and he laughs again. “The things you make me feel, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas lets him recover for a few moments, enjoying watching Richard’s facial journey as he teeters on that precarious line. Then he taps his thigh. “Off, Mr. Ellis.”

“Off?” The order clearly comes unexpected. “No, I’m - I’m sure I could do it again, Thomas, let me try, please.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, kitten.” Thomas raises an eyebrow, and Richard’s mouth falls open a little bit. “Get off and lie on your back, now.”

Richard whimpers but obeys, slowly lifting himself off of Thomas’s cock so it flops back against his stomach. He rolls over as instructed and Thomas grabs a pillow to put under his rump, using his hands to guide Richard’s legs apart.

“I hope you didn’t think you’d have all the fun, Ellis,” he says, grinning, and lines up his cock. “That’d have been very selfish of you. Like I’m being right now.” He pushes back in, reveling in the squeeze of Richard’s knees against his flanks. He kisses him to soften his harsh words. “I know you’d have kept going, love, but I might’ve embarrassed myself if you had. You’ll have more chances to prove yourself in the days to come.”

“So you, ah, you’re satisfied? Was I doing a good job?” Richard asks, struggling a bit to get the words out as Thomas’s thrusts quickly get more powerful, and there’s something about the way he says it - something that tells Thomas he’s looking for something else beyond mere praise. 

“You’re so eager, aren’t you?” he purrs, starting to pet Richard’s neck with one hand while using the other to brace himself on Richard’s flank. “So eager to please me. You’d do _anything_ for me. I only have to ask...” 

He’s on the right track, he can tell from Richard’s gasps, from the way Richard’s body keeps clenching around him with every word.  
  
“Oh, Thomas, yes, you know I would, please…” 

Thomas feels drunk with it all - Richard’s rambling, their shared moans, the slap of his testes against Richard’s arse as he fucks him again and again, everything - and the next words form so clearly in his mind, without any effort on his part: _yes you would I could do anything to you and you’d let me, you’d even thank me for it -_

And here his thoughts screech to an abrupt halt, the words slipping away from him. Words he’ll never say out loud because he can’t, he _won’t_ . He doesn’t want to be like this - he’s got a sharp tongue, and maybe he’s a bastard as some people have claimed, but he’s not a sadist, he would never, ever, actually _hurt_ Richard, let alone enjoy it...

It’s as if all oxygen has been sucked out of the room at once, and Richard is looking at him like he’s noticed something, like he’s read his thoughts almost, and Thomas feels like he’s just failed him in a major way, but if he lets those thoughts in now it’ll all fall to shit -

“Richard,” he chokes out, feeling like that one word gives him away already, just as much as the next ones will, “you know I love you, right?”

“Jesus, Thomas,” Richard says, reaching up to cup his face, and it’s the strangest, tenderest thing because Thomas is still fucking him relentlessly, like someone possessed almost, “of course, of course I know that.”

“Then... then tell me what I can do for you. Tell me, please.” He practically begs it.

“Keep fucking me exactly like you’re doing, love.” Richard flashes one of those irresistibly charming grins, sliding his hands down Thomas’s back to his buttocks. “You’re doing quite enough to get me there.”

“ _Please_ ,” Thomas implores, because there must be _something,_ and after a moment Richard takes his hand, his left hand, and guides it to his prick. The overwhelming relief trumps any reluctance he may feel, and he closes his scarred palm around Richard’s burning flesh, thumbing his tip as he thrusts deep. Richard’s exclamation feels almost as good as the heat enveloping his cock, filling his hand. “Will you come for me?” he murmurs, and it’s a far cry from the tone he’d have liked to use, a timid request more than an order, but it seems to do the job all the same.

“Yes, Thomas, touch me, fuck me, oh -”

Richard’s whimpered encouragements make him work harder, hoping with all he's got his hand won't cramp up on him because that's the last fucking thing he needs right now. 

_Please come for me, please please please…_

“Oh, God, Thomas, that's it,” Richard groans, and Thomas can feel it happen, the first convulsion of Richard's orgasm from the root to the tip of his cock, and then again, and again, just like he can feel the warm wetness coating his fingers, his palm, all of it accompanied by the sound of Richard’s moans, loud and carefree. For a few blessed moments there is only that, and the reassuring feeling of having done well, of being necessary.

Richard has kept his eyes closed the whole time but now he's opening them again, and lets out a deep shuddering sigh. “Thank you, love… now you, please…” Thomas feels those hands on his arse, pulling him deeper, leaving no doubt as to what is wanted, and that is all he needs, apparently.

It starts at the base of his spine, an irresistible pull that soon takes over his whole body as he thrusts a couple more times and then stops, buried deep inside Richard. “Kiss me,” he manages to say between one spasm and the other, and Richard does, of course, welcoming Thomas’s muffled cries like he welcomed the rest of him, eagerly. When he’s spent it all, he pitches forward, feeling like he wants to pass out and not move for a thousand years. Little Miss Mary can jump high or low, he’s not leaving this bed and getting back into his butler’s breeches until he’s good and ready.

They don't part immediately once Thomas's finished. The taste of Richard's lips grounds and comforts him as his heartbeat slowly goes back to normal. And even when they do part, he can't quite bring himself to move, his forehead resting gently against Richard's. 

“Sorry… I must be crushing you.” 

“I'm made of sturdy stuff, Mr. Barrow, don't worry.”

Thomas has his eyes closed so he can't be certain, but he's ready to bet six months' wages that Richard's smiling. 

“But if you wanted to make it up to me, a warm bath would be the way to do it. It's your turn to clean us up.”


	13. Thomas (cont'd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Richard have an illuminating conversation in the tub. Thomas gets an impromptu French lesson, a tour and a waltz. Lady Mary talks to her butler.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed that,” Thomas mutters, submerging the sponge he’s just wiped along Richard’s shoulders and chest and staring at the soapy bubbles that float to the surface when he squeezes the air out, “even if I botched it all towards the end.”

Richard gives him a puzzled look. They are facing each other and that was probably a mistake, this conversation would’ve been easier if Richard was turned the other way instead of sitting in front of him, legs bracketing Thomas’s sides. Lady Greville was right - it _is_ a tight squeeze, the two of them in a tub, but they’ve managed it.

“And ‘that’ would be referring to…?”

“Y’know… the buggery.” Thomas flinches and releases the sponge. Fully saturated with water, it slowly drifts to the bottom.

“I see. And you ‘botched’ that how exactly? Enlighten me, if you will.”

Thomas shrugs. He’s being sullen and he knows it, but the sense of failure is real and Richard is just being nice by pretending not to know what he’s talking about, because that’s Richard fucking Ellis for you.

“Thomas, I honest to God couldn’t begin to guess what you’re talking about, but please know that I have absolutely no complaints. That was truthfully the best shag I’ve had since -”

“Since when?”

“Since February.” Richard grins. “Or perhaps ever.”

Thomas huffs and bristles a little. “Exaggeration isn’t helpful, Ellis.”

“I’m not exaggerating, I promise. I just know you made me feel incredible, better than I have in I don’t know how long, and I really struggle to understand what you think you did wrong -”

“Never mind,” Thomas mumbles, and picks up the sponge again. “Forget I brought it up.”

“Can’t,” Richard says gently, and takes it from Thomas’s hand. “Not until you’ve gotten off your chest what’s bothering you. I’ll shut up for a bit so you can talk, all right? Close your eyes.”

Thomas obeys, bowing his head as Richard carefully wrings out the sponge over his scalp. God, how in the world is he going to fucking say this? It’s not as if they’ve talked a whole lot about this in general.

“Well,” he says, and even that very tentative beginning feels inadequate, “we were… acting a certain way, weren’t we? Back there. You were playing a part and I was too.” He can feel Richard hesitating briefly, his hands ceasing their work for just a moment.

“Yes, I think I know what you mean.”

It sounds as if he wants to say more, but true to his word, he doesn’t. Thomas almost wishes he would - it’d be easier to be nudged along as they broach these sensitive topics.

“It… doesn’t bother me, usually,” he finally manages to say. “In fact, I… I like it.”

“You do?” God, this is all so awkward. Thomas cringes. He still has his head down, so he hopes Richard doesn’t notice.

“I like making you feel good.” He smells shampoo, and a few seconds later Richard’s fingers return to massage the stuff into his hair. “You’ve said it makes you feel good.”

“It does, yeah. But, Thomas, if you want to stop - if you have any doubts about continuing with it, I won’t -”

“I don’t.” Thomas keeps his eyes tightly shut, almost surprising himself with the answer. “I don’t, but… maybe I don’t _always_ want to be that way. Sometimes I’d like it to be… just us, I s’pose. Is that all right? Christ, go easy, will you?”

“Sorry.” Richard eases up on the pressure. “And yes, of course that’s all right. I don’t think I could _be_ that way all the time, either. But for some reason the urge was strong in me today. Felt good to let go for a bit, y’know?”

Thomas hears him turning on the tap. Richard’s words remind him of what Lady Greville had said in the sitting room, about him not looking well, and how it had compounded his own feeling that something wasn’t right.

But he stops short of saying that, asking instead, “D’you suppose we need rules, or something?”

“Almost done.” A stream of clean warm water pours over Thomas’s head, and it feels so good that he can hear a hum of pleasure building at the back of his throat. “I don’t know… I think the main rule should be that we stop when it no longer feels good.”

And they’ve circled back to how this conversation began. Thomas takes a breath and grasps his courage.

“That’s… that’s what happened today. It stopped feeling good, at the end.”

He is probably going about this all wrong, and the way Richard’s voice cracks a bit on his reply tells him as much.

“Yeah, I… I noticed something… changed. But why didn’t you tell me right then? Why’d you keep going?”

“Damn it, isn't it obvious why? I didn't want to ruin everything. You were enjoying it so much, and -”

“But you weren’t,” Richard says softly, and fuck, this is exactly what Thomas’s didn’t want to happen. He rubs the water from his eyes before opening them, because he needs to look Richard in the face for this.

“It’s not that; I was enjoying fucking you very much, don’t ever think otherwise. I just - I feel like I failed you, because... I wasn’t playing my part right by the end, not the way you needed me to. I… I just couldn’t see it through.” Frustrated, he runs his fingers through his sodden hair. “D’you understand? I was starting to say things, think things that weren’t _me._ Like it was someone else speaking, taking over, a hateful, cruel person. That’s why I had to stop and make sure you knew… that wasn’t really me.”

“Thank you,” Richard says after a brief, thoughtful silence. “I’ve always known that isn’t you, Thomas, but if it felt wrong… I’m glad you decided not to continue with it. I’d never want you to go against your own inclinations because you felt you had to for my sake.”

Said by someone else, under different circumstances, these reassurances might’ve irked Thomas as bordering on condescending, but God damn it, he needed to hear them so badly. The relief is like a knot unraveling in his stomach. “All right, Richard.” He sighs. “Thank you.”

“Let that be one of the rules, then.” Richard glances down briefly, taking a moment to choose his words. “You established that I... I'm not to apologise when we are like that. Well, my rule is that you use our word when it no longer feels good. Promise me.”

_Of fucking course._

“Forgot about the bloody word,” he mutters, feeling like a fool and a half, but Richard smiles and reaches out to flatten a cowlick on his head.

“Probably because we haven’t needed it before,” he says, and that’s true enough. “But I think it’s a good idea to reinstate it for situations like these. We’re both new to this, after all. But… we’ll figure it out together as we go along. As long as we keep being honest with each other.”

“Thank you for washing my hair.”

“My pleasure.”

“How about I return the favour?”

“I’d like that,” Richard says, passing him the shampoo.

“A good moment, perhaps, to answer a couple questions I have,” Thomas casually suggests as he begins the task. “Let’s start with your friend, whom you’ve never mentioned before today, and the manner of your meeting.”

Richard chuckles. “Should’ve known you’d bring that up again sooner rather than later.”

“Excuse me, I think I’ve been very patient.”

“You have, love, and I don’t mind sharing the story. As I mentioned, Beatrice and her husband Ian were regular guests at the house where I was a footman. Theirs was a union of convenience, of course, but they had a truly strong marriage in every sense but the physical. Intellectually, temperamentally, they were incredibly well-matched. When we met, they were in their early thirties, I was nineteen, twenty maybe.”

“And you made Lady Greville’s husband your next stepping stone on your quest to bed as many married men as possible,” Thomas prompts, in an admittedly poor attempt at humor, but the way Richard ducks his head tells him he’s not too far off the mark.

“He was a striking man, in his own quiet way. Tall, chiseled face, dark moustache. Easily noticed in a room. I caught his eye at a dinner party one night and… things happened from there.”

Thomas opens the taps, adding more hot water. They’ll be here a while, from the sound of it. “Got him alone, did you?”

“In the morning room. I’d put Theo on the lookout, but he got called away, on account of some emergency involving a drunk guest spilling red wine on a valuable Oriental rug. Lord Greville and I were unaware of this; in fact, I was on my knees preparing to suck his cock when the door suddenly opened and Beatrice blew in. I’d had a few close calls before, but nothing like that, never had a wife walk in while we were in flagrante delicto. Most terrifying three seconds of my life, let me tell you.”

“I’ll bet, yeah.”

“And then she said… let’s see if I can remember this verbatim… ‘Ian, darling, _must_ you always seduce the footmen at every party we attend?’” 

Thomas _really_ tries to keep his thoughts to himself this time, but only succeeds for a second. “Pompous and melodramatic even then, I gather.”

Richard just laughs. “It was the truest introduction to her character I could’ve gotten, that’s fair enough. Ian was remarkably calm, given the compromising position we’d been caught in. 'Wasn't me who seduced him', I think was his response, and there wasn’t much I could say to deny it. At that time I still felt things were in the balance as to whether I was going to be escorted out of the house in fetters.”

Thomas frowns. He doesn’t much like what he’s hearing about the Grevilles so far, but he’s willing to hear the rest of the story before casting his final judgment. “What happened then?”

He’ll give Richard one thing - he has a way of telling and embellishing a story in such a way that even an event that happened almost twenty years ago springs to life in Thomas’s mind as if he were there.

_“What’s your name, darling?” Lady Greville asked Richard, who’d gotten up from his kneeling position and was eyeing the two of them apprehensively. Lord Greville gave him a friendly nod._

_“Don’t worry, you can answer her. We're very good at forgiving each other our unacceptable inclinations, it's the reason we got married in the first place.”_

_“Or our indiscretions of an incriminating nature,” Lady Greville added with a little smile. “I’m not the jealous wife you may’ve taken me for, darling, breathe easy. But I /am/ a protective wife - other guests are prowling this part of the house, and the charming footman who was standing guard outside is currently managing a small crisis in the billiard room, I believe. So if you and your friend want to finish this, Ian, I suggest you do it at a later time, at our house.” Then, turning back to Richard, “You’ll be very welcome, dear. Whether or not you decide to tell me your name.”_

_“It’s Richard,” he said quickly, feeling caught out, and blushed._

_“Beatrice, would you wait outside, dear?” Lord Greville asked his wife. “I’ll be out in a minute.” After the door clicked shut, he took Richard’s hands and brushed the fingers. “I’m sorry for my wife’s direct ways, but she’s right. I don’t want to risk your life or mine by continuing this here, much as I would like to. I forgot myself for a moment… you’re a very engaging lad.”_

_Richard pouted and took a step closer. He wasn’t used to men telling him no, and he didn’t like it. “And what if I sucked you off with your wife outside the door?”_

_He went in for a kiss, but Lord Greville turned his head. Regretfully, it seemed. “I won’t ask that of her, Richard, and you should learn to be more careful. Or the next time someone walks in, it won’t be good people.”_

_“You can’t tell me to be more careful and invite me to your house in the same breath,” Richard said, forgoing all deference to one of a superior class. “Besides, I’m horny /now/.”_

_“Boys your age are always horny,” Lord Greville calmly retorted, and chuckled forgivingly, cupping Richard’s face and brushing his lips once with his thumb. “We’re in Knightsbridge, at Montpelier, should you decide to come. I’ll be waiting for your visit, Richard.”_

“And considering where we are right now,” Thomas drily interrupts, “I suppose you accepted the invitation.”

Richard makes a face. “And judging from your tone of voice, you don’t approve.”

“Had I known you at the time, I would’ve tried to persuade you not to go, yeah.”

“That’s exactly what Theo did, as it so happens.”

“Really? Good lad,” Thomas says, though he’s never met the bloke, “and good advice. Why didn’t you take it?”

Richard shrugs. “I was curious and stupid. Didn’t everything I told you about Blake warn you of that fact already?”

At the mention of Blake, Thomas finds himself tongue-tied for a moment. “Richard, I swear to God, if you’re about to tell me that woman’s husband was the second coming of that bastard Blake…”

“I met him before Blake,” Richard corrects him, as if that was the bloody point. “And he wasn’t, Thomas, he was a kind man. Very civilised, humble, broadly educated. A gentleman in the true sense of the word. And unlike Blake, he could face himself in the mirror and admit he was queer. He spoke about it, not openly of course, but to me. I’ve often asked myself why I later went on to lose my head for Blake but never felt that way about Ian when he was by far the worthier man.”

“Well, I think we’ve established previously that neither of us always knew how to pick ‘em.”

“Not always, no.” Richard pouts his lips and leans forward slightly as though inviting a kiss. A kiss Thomas spontaneously decides not to give him just yet.

“No.”

“Please, Thomas,” Richard cajoles, “kiss me.”

“The story isn’t finished. From what I’ve seen today, you didn’t come here just the once to finish sucking His Lordship’s cock.” Richard shakes his head slightly. “How often would you come here?”

“During a time, as often as I could manage it,” Richard replies. “Every three to four weeks, I’d say. Sometimes I’d only have an hour, sometimes more. Ian and I would spend some time alone and afterwards we’d all converge in some part of the house for a little conversation, some music or a game… Sometimes Beatrice would have a guest over as well.”

It all sounds highly irregular, even for a couple of bohemians flaunting their eccentricity by entertaining a footman in their house, but even Thomas has to admit that it also has an… idyllic ring to it, insofar as he is able to imagine it. The only comparison he can make with his own life is his relationship with Philip, and even overlooking the disastrous way it ended, it was never like _this_. There was passion and lust and intellectual equality, but what Richard is describing sounds a lot like genuine friendship and it is a well-documented fact that Thomas doesn’t have a lot of experience with that.

Richard on the other hand seems to attract it. And what is more, he keeps the friends he makes for a long time.

“What games?” he asks distractedly. “Let me guess… charades?”

“Sometimes charades, yeah, or cards. Chess was another favourite. Ian was a keen player. When he first suggested I take him on, I scoffed at him. Far too cerebral, I told him, and not a game for a working class lad besides. I’d never touched a rook or bishop in my life.”

“I haven’t to this day.”

“He made it his personal mission to teach me.” Richard smiles fondly at the memory, and for some reason Thomas’s heart aches a little. Clearly those hours spent at the board strike a deep chord even today. “Showed me all the different openings, strategies, endgames, taught me their names. I became quite fascinated with it all, although I never became as good at it as he was. He said I was a good bluffer, though. Difficult to read and predict.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me one bit.” On impulse Thomas leans forward to kiss him, but Richard angles away with a teasing smile.

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” Emboldened by Richard’s infectious grin, Thomas splashes water in his face. “Fucker. Think you’re clever, huh? Think you’re oh so funny? Kiss me.” 

“No,” Richard laughs, and retaliates by throwing the sponge, hitting Thomas squarely in the chest with a squishy _plop_. “Lost your chance.”

“Have I, now,” Thomas begins, and as he grapples with Richard for the sponge, Richard kisses him. For a moment, there exists only that - the feeling of their mouths joined together, the reassuring press of Richard’s lips to his - and then Richard pulls back and plants the sponge in his face.

“Oh, you’re asking for it now, Mr. Ellis -”

They have it out for a few moments more, laughing freely, only managing to stop themselves when the water starts sloshing over the edges of the tub.

“Truce,” Richard suggests, a little breathless, and drops the sponge with a beguiling grin.

“I’d rather have a surrender,” Thomas says, “but I’ll take a truce.”

“I don’t surrender that easily, Mr. Barrow.”

“Don’t you? That’s news to me.” Thomas’s pulse spikes a little at the risqué remark, but Richard’s blush was worth the risk alone.

“Can I say something?”

“First time you’ve asked permission,” Thomas says, “but be my guest.”

“I love you, too.” Before Thomas can respond, Richard quickly leans in and kisses him. “That was for earlier,” he clarifies. “Missed my chance then.”

“What did we say about keeping tallies,” Thomas murmurs, but he is pleased all the same, and kisses Richard to let him know. “C’mon, let’s get out. Would your friend mind very much if you showed me the other rooms?”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

They hoist themselves out of the water and dry off, trading a couple more kisses in the process. “All right?” Thomas can’t help asking, and touches Richard’s hip with his palm. They just had vigorous sex, the memory of it still fresh in his mind, and he wants to be sure Richard isn’t too sore.

“More than all right,” Richard reassures him with a grin. “I feel fantastic.”

And he looks it, too, so Thomas puts his worry aside. “Fantastic’ll do.”

They quickly get dressed and leave the bathroom in their shirtsleeves, Richard slipping his hand in Thomas’s as he gently pulls him across the hallway, to the first bedroom on their tour. Despite Richard’s reassurances, it all feels rather clandestine, and Thomas can’t help glancing up and down the hallway. “Shouldn’t we knock?” he asks under his breath as Richard turns the knob.

“There is no one here but us, Thomas, I promise.”

And it seems he is right, as they go from one empty room to another, each tastefully decorated in its own style. Hardly new to how the rich live, Thomas still manages to be impressed with the attention to detail that meets the eye wherever he looks - he can’t help noticing the clocks in particular, each perfectly chosen to fit the theme of the room it’s in, and some of them rare antique pieces too.

“That’s a Tompion, isn’t it?” Richard suddenly says, following Thomas’s gaze as he inspects an ebony bracket clock. He looks almost blasé, or tries very hard to. Thomas can’t pretend not to be stunned by the correct identification - even Albert with his training may not have passed that test.

“You really weren’t joking about reading that book, were you?” 

“So I got that right?” 

“You did. That’s… that’s amazing.” 

“Oh, you know,” Richard shrugs, his attempt at being nonchalant now severely undermined by his wide smile. “Beginner’s luck.”

Here, Thomas can’t help but step closer and kiss him. “You’re almost unacceptably adorable, Mr. Ellis,” he murmurs, “what am I to do with you?”

“Come on,” Richard says after a few moments, gently extracting himself and tugging at his hand, “there is more to see, if you’re not tired of it yet.”

“Is the mythical first favourite room included in the tour?” Thomas asks as they go through yet another door into what must be the Impressionist room, and Richard chuckles.

“Beatrice was right - you wouldn’t like that room.”

“Why not?” Thomas presses. “Why can’t I see it if you have?”

“I’ve been coming here a lot longer,” Richard replies with irrefutable logic. “Wasn’t at our first meeting that Beatrice decided to show it to me, either. It takes a special sense of humor, I suppose - you may think it vulgar.”

“Vulgar,” Thomas parrots, thinking of the woman in the loud outfit who’d greeted them in the parlour, “because…?”

“It’s got, eh, sapphic imagery.” Richard clears his throat when Thomas just gapes at him. “Tits, Thomas. Tits and cunts.”

“I had a pretty good idea at ‘sapphic imagery’, thank you.”

“Right.” Richard smirks at him over his shoulder. “So now that you know this, you probably understand why she didn’t recommend that one for our use.”

“I think you both underestimate me,” Thomas says, boldness welling up inside him and puffing out his chest. “I’m fairly confident I could fuck you in that room just as well as I did in the other one, tits notwithstanding.”

The strangled sound Richard lets out in response is oddly satisfying. “Why, Mr. Barrow, I’d ask for a demonstration right now if I wasn’t still recovering from the one you just gave me.” 

Thomas just smiles in reply, in a way that he fears could be much more aptly described as ‘besotted’ rather than ‘confident’, and takes Richard by the hand; his turn at leading them out of the room and into the hallway again.

“What’s in there?” he asks, gesturing at one of the few doors they haven’t opened yet.

“That’s a leisure room of sorts, to the best of my knowledge. For games, music, that type of thing. Haven’t been in there in a while - Beatrice usually entertains downstairs.”

It’s a pleasant room - not very large but bright, with tall south-facing windows and a bay window ideal for reading or needlework. There is a small harpsichord in the corner, a table with a chessboard ready to be played with, and shelves upon shelves stacked with books, the spines faded from sun exposure, which hurts him a little to see.

And a gramophone.

“There’s a proper pianoforte downstairs,” Richard muses aloud, striking a few keys. “This one may not even be in tune - Beatrice doesn’t come in here often, as far as I know.”

“Do you play?”

“Just a handful of songs,” Richard says, looking up with a shy grin. “Very limited repertoire.”

“You keep surprising me, Mr. Ellis.” Distracted, Thomas kneels down by a cabinet and pulls it open, discovering what he was after - a record collection. “Where did you learn?”

“Church, mostly. The choirmaster tried to teach us to celebrate God through different forms of music, since you can’t be a boy soprano forever.”

Richard Ellis, a boy soprano. Singing psalms at Sunday Mass like a pure little angel, with the voice to match. The image slips into Thomas’s mind with surprising ease, helped by his memory of the First Communion portrait he’d seen in Mrs. Ellis’s parlour, and it makes him want to embrace the man and stammer he couldn’t possibly love him more, which would be the truth but not very dignified. To preserve a modicum of respectability he decides to focus on the records instead. 

Irving Berlin, Strauss, George Gershwin, vaudeville, musicals… the selection is eclectic to say the least, but there’s one in particular that catches Thomas’s attention: an Erik Satie waltz, _Je te veux_. Reading that title, he’s immediately transported back to Downton, to an evening spent in his rocking chair with only the wireless and the sounds of Phyl’s sewing machine for company. He wasn’t sufficiently versed in French to understand all of it, but he’d understood the gist well enough, and it made him yearn.

Granted, it doesn’t take much to make him yearn these days.

“I know this,” he says, rising to his feet and pulling the record from its sleeve. “Heard it on the wireless a couple months ago.” He places the record on the turntable and moves the arm with the needle, turning around to face Richard as the opening chords fill the space between them, just a gentle piano soon joined by a soprano.

 _J'ai compris ta détresse  
_ _Cher amoureux  
_ _Et je cède à tes voeux  
_ _Fais de moi ta maîtresse..._

“Lovely,” Richard says, cocking his head as he listens. “Haven’t heard it before, I don’t think.”

Thomas crosses the floor and reaches out, heart beating oddly quickly as he grasps Richard’s hand and pulls him away from behind the harpsichord. “How much does it take to get you to ask a bloke to dance, Mr. Ellis?” he teases, and Richard grows red. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you propped up, if you’re not sure of your legs just yet.”

“I think I can just about manage a waltz,” Richard murmurs, as Thomas takes his hand and guides it to the small of his back. “Oh - you want…”

“Lead me, Richard, please,” Thomas whispers, the desire so deep in him that the thought of Richard refusing is almost unbearable.

“My skills are rarely called upon,” Richard admits, pulling Thomas closer, “but I promise I’ll give it my best. After all, we’re owed a dance... for that night in York a year ago.”

“Fucking right we are,” Thomas says, and slips his left hand into Richard’s right, skin to skin. Then he waits, breathless, until he gets his cue and then they step in with the music, Richard forward and Thomas back, going where Richard’s body directs him. The first few steps are hesitant, and Thomas can see tension and then mild panic on Richard’s face as he stumbles a bit and needs to correct himself once and then a second time.

“Sorry… like I said, I don’t do this often.”

“Breathe,” Thomas says, hoping to buoy his confidence, “there’s no need to be nervous.”

“I'm not nervous, I just want to get this right.” Frowning with the effort of performing the moves, Richard turns them around.

 _Que mon cœur soit le tien  
_ _Que ta lèvre soit mienne  
_ _Que ton corps soit le mien  
_ _Et que toute ma chair soit tienne..._

“Don’t overthink it, Richard. You know the steps. Listen to the music, feel it in your body.” He can feel Richard lowering his shoulders somewhat, the clasp of his fingers relaxing slightly. “You’ve got it, love. Focus on me.”

“That’s easy enough to do.”

Thomas starts laughing, and Richard’s self-deprecating grins widens. “Surely you have better lines than that, Mr. Ellis,” he teases. “At least you did when I just met you.”

“I tend to save my best lines for exciting new prospects, Mr. Barrow,” Richard suavely parries, and Thomas laughs again, without rancour about the jest. He realises their bodies are moving together more easily, more naturally, and it feels good, it feels _so fucking good._

_J'aspire à l'instant précieux_   
_Où nous serons heureux  
Je te veux_

“How is your French?” he asks Richard as they continue dancing in close proximity, chest to chest. “You said you know enough of the language to get by at a French brothel. Can you understand what the lady is saying?”

Richard puffs up his cheeks. “‘Je te veux’ means ‘I want you.’”

“Yeah, I’d gotten that far myself.”

“As for the rest, I’m only picking up the odd word here and there.” Richard grins. “Saying ‘I want to fuck’ in French is one thing, translating a libretto off the cuff quite another.”

“What’s ‘I want to fuck’ in French?” Thomas purrs. “Say it to me.”

_“Je veux baiser.”_

Thomas is disappointed. “That doesn’t sound half as erotic as I thought it would.”

Richard laughs. “All right, try this…” He brings his mouth closer to Thomas’s ear, lowering his voice. _“Je veux t’enculer, mon trésor.”_

Thomas feels _that_ in his belly, for sure. “What’s that mean?”

Richard pulls back his head to glint at him mischievously. “I want to fuck you in the arse.”

“Fuck, yeah, that’s more like it.” Thomas shifts his right hand to the back of Richard’s neck, caressing the skin just above the collar. “I notice you didn’t translate the whole sentence.”

“ _Mon trésor_ means -”

“I know what it means. I’m just fucking with you.” Thomas kisses him. “You picked up some useful skills at those French brothels, Mr. Ellis.”

“Yeah, and none of them involved cunnilingus,” Richard deadpans, and Thomas chokes on giggles, scandalised. Richard smiles, somewhat distantly, as though at a fond memory. “It was an education in another sense of the word. One I’m not… entirely ungrateful for.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Oh - forget it, I’m afraid it’s not a very interesting story.”

Thomas is surprised at Richard turning cagey all of a sudden. “It was making you smile just now, so I doubt that very much.”

“It’s - ah, Thomas, you are going to make me tell you, aren’t you?” Richard ducks his head. “I feel like we talk far too much about me already and nowhere near enough about you.”

“I don’t like talking about myself. I like listening to you, learning about you. Especially the things that put a smile on your face.” Thomas quickly adds, “But you don’t have to tell the story if you’d rather not.”

“Ah, it’s not much of a story, like I said. I was just… thinking of when my mates in the battalion took me to a brothel for my birthday and I spent the better part of an hour weeping in a prostitute’s lap.” Richard is silent as they perform another turn. His earlier clumsiness is gone and he’s moving well, not with Chris Webster’s flair but what he lacks he more than makes up for in rhythm and elegance. “Suzanne, her name was. Didn’t speak a word of English, but… we understood each other in other ways, I think. She knew what I was, of course, but she was kind to me, touched me. I often wonder how she’s doing now.”

Thomas’s chest tightens a little. _Leave it to Richard fucking Ellis and that big, soft, bleeding heart of his to worry about a whore he spent an hour with over a decade ago_. Suzanne will probably still be at that same brothel, letting fat, unwashed French peasants do whatever they want for a measly few francs to feed her several bastard children, but he doesn’t say that, of course. Let the man keep what little naiveté the war didn’t bleed out of him.

“You’re something quite special, Richard Ellis,” he says, and kisses him. “They don’t make ‘em like that very often.”

“Oh, shush,” Richard mutters, and blushes, but he overall accepts the compliment more graciously than Thomas thought he would.

When the record ends, it takes a moment for them to take its cue and stop swirling about the room and release each other, invigorated, breathing a little more heavily than normal.

“Thank you for that,” Thomas finally says, when he slowly becomes aware again of where they are. “I hate to be mawkish, but… that was something I’ll never forget.”

“My pleasure _,_ Mr. Barrow,” Richard says softly, and he makes a gallant little bow, oddly formal but not jarringly so. _“Tout le plaisir est pour moi.”_

“Now you’re just showing off.” Thomas grasps his hands and kisses him again, because he knows soon he won’t be able to. He’s lost all sense of time, but his stomach tells him it must be around or even past the lunch hour. “I wish we could go to one of your places in Soho, like Turton’s, and dance all night,” he murmurs, before he’s decided to say it out loud. “I want every queer bloke in London to be there and see how good we look together.”

It’s probably hubris that’s making him say all this, but he’s dazed from the dance and dazed with love, and damn it, regular folks get to flaunt their conquests publicly. He’d gotten a taste of that when he danced with Webster, a taste that left him wanting more despite the way it ended, the rough treatment by the policemen reminding him, once again, that even a quick taste is a punishable offense.

“I do, too.” Richard cups Thomas’s face, strokes his cheeks with his thumbs. “But I daren’t risk it. I daren’t risk you. I had my scare a year ago, I don’t fancy having another.”

“That’s fair, I guess.” Thomas sighs, leaning into him heavily, breathing him in. “Y’know, sometimes I forget you bailed me out of jail the same night we first slept together.”

Richard gives a wry grin. “I wish I was that lucky.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I’m sorry you had to bail me out of jail.”

“That’s quite all right, you came very cheap - at the price of a calling card.” Richard chuckles. “And it made you notice me, at least.”

“Hey,” Thomas says indignantly, pulling back, “I did notice you. Showing you to your room, making conversation, that was me noticing you.”

“It was the accent that captivated you, wasn't it?” 

“Actually, I think it was all the faces you were making behind Wilson's back as he gave his obnoxious speech.”

“What are you talking about? When Mr. Wilson speaks, the rest of us poor peasants jump to attention and give the King’s Page of the Backstairs the deference he’s owed.”

“Yeah,” Thomas snorts, “pull the other one, Ellis. For your information, I was looking straight at you and saw every side-eye you gave him. Do you do that at every house you visit on your tours?”

Richard grins. “Well, what am I supposed to do? Unlike my associates, I actually like to make friends with the resident staff. Wouldn’t want them to think I’m one of the windbags.”

“Yes, you’re very friendly, aren’t you,” Thomas murmurs, kissing him, and for a little while they get distracted doing just that, necking like juveniles behind the shooting booth at the fair.

He can guess what Richard is going to say next from the way his left hand, now firmly placed on Thomas's hip, tightens slightly, from the deep sigh leaving his lips as he puts an end to the kiss. 

“You have to go back soon, don't you?” he says softly, still so close that Thomas can feel every word against his mouth.

“We both do, I suppose. Duty calls.”

“No rest for the wicked.”

“Quite so.”

They are never going to leave the room at this rate. Which is fine by Thomas, but not by the rest of the world. He takes a deep breath, then he takes a step back. Richard's arms fall back to his sides, and Thomas immediately feels colder for their loss.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Richard asks almost timidly, as if after all that, Thomas could tell him no.

“Will your friend receive us again, you reckon?”

“I’m sure she will. Let’s ask her before we leave.”

“Through the front door,” Thomas says, shaking his head. “Your friend doesn’t care very much about decorum or neighbourhood standing, does she?”

“I think she enjoys a good gossip about herself, to tell you the truth of it.” Richard grins. “She’s an eccentric rich widow, a rumour about a ménage-à-trois with two working class blokes wouldn’t half bother her. In fact, I think she’d encourage it.”

“Oh my God,” Thomas chokes out, aghast. He knows what _that_ French word means. “No wonder the two of you get on - you’re each as naughty as the other.”

Richard clearly enjoys Thomas’s scandalised reaction, but then his gleeful expression wanes, and there is something fragile in his voice when he asks, “Can you try to like her, Thomas?”

Thomas sighs and looks down at his feet. Richard is asking a lot, but he asks for things so rarely. “If it means that much to you, I promise I’ll try.”

“Thank you. That does mean a lot to me.”

“I can’t promise she’ll like me, though,” he mutters. “We didn’t have a promising start.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve seen how Beatrice is with people she doesn’t like, and your little tiff earlier was nothing compared to that. I reckon you stand a pretty good chance.”

Well, he’ll just have to take Richard’s word for it. Thomas puts the record back where he found it, lingering a moment at the chessboard before they leave. “Do you still play?”

“Haven’t in years, no. Haven’t played anyone but Ian, now that I think about it.”

“What happened to him?”

“I think you can guess quite easily,” Richard murmurs, stepping closer and fiddling with one of the pieces - a bishop, Thomas guesses.

 _Yeah, I can._ “Where?” 

“At Gallipoli. Right at the start of the campaign. But I only found out once I was back in London. Beatrice wrote a letter, but it never reached me. She was quite a wreck still when I visited her, even three years later. She never quite got over it, I don’t think.”

They return to the art nouveau room to fetch their jackets and coats, stealing one last kiss before going downstairs. “I’ll try to wrangle more time tomorrow,” Thomas promises, linking his fingers briefly through Richard’s, caressing his palm. “I’ll telegram you.”

“I’ll be counting the hours,” Richard says, adding “Too saccharine?” when Thomas looks at him with the most unimpressed expression he can muster. 

“A little. But you're pretty and I love you, so I'll allow it.”

“Thanks,” Richard grins, and Thomas kisses him again, _the last one for real,_ because he’s feeling weak like that and Lady Mary is already going to give him a thorough grilling for staying out this long, what can one more minute hurt?

When he enters Grantham House by the backdoor twenty minutes later - he caught a bus on Brompton Road to win some time - and walks into the kitchen, Anna is there.

“Oh, Mr. Barrow,” she says, “there you are. Lady Mary was looking for you earlier.”

“Am I in trouble, do you reckon?”

“No, you’re all right, I’d say. I think whatever issue she needed you for has resolved itself. She’s in the drawing room with Lady Painswick. Did you have a pleasant morning? You missed lunch, so I asked cook to save you a sandwich.”

“Ah, thanks, Anna,” he says distractedly. “It was very pleasant, thank you. I’ll just go and quickly change before reporting to the generalissimo.”

“Don’t start,” she says, and he grins none too apologetically, taking a big bite of his sandwich as he heads up the stairs. He changes in record time and heads down to the drawing room to serve tea, having checked his shirt and lapels for crumbs about a dozen times.

Of course, all this efficiency doesn’t save him from Lady Painswick’s aloof glare once he enters the drawing room. “Ah, tea - now that would've been nice half an hour ago," she says with a clipped voice, clearly having just risen from her chair. Lady Mary is on her feet too, looking none too displeased at her aunt’s imminent departure. 

_So much for the issue resolving itself, Anna,_ he thinks morosely, while trying to bear the reproach as graciously as he can manage.

“I’ll thank you not to chastise my butler, Aunt Rosamund,” Lady Mary says, somehow able to sound cordial and annoyed at the same time. “Mr. Barrow was out this morning with my permission.”

“It’s not a problem, dear,” Lady Painswick reassures her, in a tone that says it is very much a problem. “Though it does make you wonder. The staff free to roam the streets while we stay here without even a plate of common biscuits to nibble on... How the mighty have fallen.” 

“Didn’t you say you were late for an appointment, Aunt?”

“I am.” She knows how to take a dismissal in stride, Thomas will give her that. “Just tell me, does Barrow plan on going out again tomorrow? So I’ll know not to visit around that time.”

“I don’t know, Aunt, why don’t you ask him yourself? He is standing right there.”

“I am hoping to, Lady Painswick,” Thomas says, forcing his features into a deferential smile. “Seeing as this will be the last trip to London for the foreseeable future, I’d like to pay some friends a visit.”

“Hm,” Lady Painswick responds, disapproval thick in that one syllable, and Lady Mary kisses her on the cheek.

“Why don’t I visit you tomorrow, Aunt,” she says. “Save you the trouble of coming over from Belgrave.”

“Fine, dear, fine. Well, now I really must run.”

“Shall I see you out, Lady Painswick?” Thomas asks, putting down the teapot.

“No need, Barrow. I saw myself in, I think I can see myself out. And I couldn’t, in good conscience, let that tea go cold, considering how long my niece waited for it.”

With that final sneer she departs, and barely has she left the room or Lady Mary sits upon the canapé with a weary sigh. “Thank you, Barrow,” she says, as Thomas gives her a cup of tea. “God, I have a splitting headache all of a sudden.”

“Shall I bring you something for that, milady?”

“That would be good, Barrow, thank you.” She takes a sip of tea. “I do wish Mr. Branson was here to shoulder some of the load. Two potential buyers _and_ Lady Painswick and it’s not even three.”

“I imagine it must be straining, milady. But I hope the viewings went well.”

“I think they were curious about the house more than genuinely interested. But time will tell.” She takes another sip and sets her cup down, eyeing him attentively. “Did you have a good visit?”

“I did, milady, thank you.” Thomas hesitates for a moment, waiting for a dismissal that isn’t yet forthcoming. This is an almost cordial conversation for their standards, and he doesn’t quite know how to feel about it, just like it doesn’t sit entirely right with him that he has her to thank for even being in London and getting the time to see Richard and have sex between serving breakfast and pouring tea.

He’s also trying very hard not to think of Richard riding his cock just an hour or two earlier, thighs spread wide and back arched, or stumbling his way through the first steps of a waltz. God, he feels like he’s _lived_ more in the past three days than in the past five months put together.

“Oh, before I forget, Barrow. You won’t be required to serve dinner tomorrow night. I’ll be eating out and I expect to be home late.”

His heart skips a beat. “Very good, milady. I’ll tell cook.”

“I am looking rather forward to it. A night out will do me good. To be clear, Barrow, I don't expect you to still be up when I get back. We’ll see each other at breakfast the next morning.”

“I -” It’s such an oddly specific thing for her to say, and so emphatically at that, that he doesn’t immediately know how to respond. She raises an eyebrow, and for a second he feels transparent as glass. “Milady -”

“I’ve ordered a cab to pick me up tomorrow at six thirty,” she continues, adding to his bewilderment. He opens his mouth, but she gives a curt nod. “I think we understand each other, Barrow. There’s nothing more to say on the matter. Now, if you’d fetch me a powder for my headache, I’d be grateful.”


	14. Thomas (cont'd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner at the Greville residence - featuring a prominent guest - puts Thomas's social skills to the test, but with considerable payoff. A mirror may or may not be involved.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Richard quirks an eyebrow at him, fingers nimbly manipulating the white silk of Thomas’s tie as they lay an irreproachable knot. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“Not second thoughts, exactly. Just… feeling a bit out of my depth, is all.”

“Because of this?” Richard adjusts the bow at Thomas’s throat, taking a step back to study its alignment. “Why? You’ve worn white tie before. I’ve seen you in it. I’ve vivid memories of that.”

“To wait on fancy people, yes.” Thomas’s mouth twitches ruefully. “Not to be waited on myself by someone who is my equal in rank.” He turns to study himself in the mirror and wonders, not for the first time this evening, if this was how Branson felt when the Crawleys forced him into evening wear for the first time.

The thought of Branson alone is almost enough to make him pull out of this dinner altogether. _Almost._

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t turn up looking more like ourselves,” he mutters, smoothing out the stiff bib front shirt, the crisp lapels of the dinner jacket (not a tailcoat, at least - thank God for small blessings). “We’re not gentlemen, Richard, you and I. ‘s Wrong to pose as something we’re not.”

“And who’s to say what a gentleman is?” Richard moves to stand to the left of him, brushing and then grasping his fingers gently. “We’ve observed them our entire adult lives, studied their ways, learned to anticipate their every whim. We know how they talk, and move, and hold a fork. Easy enough to emulate.”

“For you, perhaps.” Thomas scowls at him in the mirror, thinking Richard pulls the look off better than that Irish mick Branson does today. “You’ll fool people, looking like that.” He smirks. “At least until you open your mouth and Broad Yorkshire spills out.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Richard says in a commendable approximation of the King’s English, and grins. “If it talks like a duck, Mr. Barrow.”

“You have radical viewpoints, Mr. Ellis. And that for a man with your credentials.” Thomas takes a deep breath. “It’ll be just us and our hostess at dinner, right?”

“And her companion, Constance.”

“Last name?”

“Truly, Thomas, there’s no need for ceremony, just call them both by -”

“I’d sooner eat my shoe laces, Richard. Tell me the name.”

Richard speaks so quickly and so indistinctly that Thomas almost doesn't catch his next words. “Leveson-Gower.”

_What the actual -_

“Born one or married one?”

Richard looks at him with an expression that either means, _Does it matter?_ or _Are you really that much of a snob?_

The answer in both cases would be yes.

“Born one. But really, she isn’t that type of aristocrat. Trust me, you’ll see.”

“A radical who keeps radicals for friends - nothing should surprise me anymore with you.” Thomas fiddles with his bowtie. “What’ll we even have to talk about at dinner? How -”

_How did you talk me into this, again? Why did I let you? Three days ago we were at that back alley hotel and now I’m about to go down and dine with the fucking aristocracy and it’s all because of you -_

“And what if I told you that you’ll do fine?”

Richard brushes his shoulders, smiling at him in a way that buoys Thomas’s confidence, even if just for a second. He smiles back.

“Then I’d tell you you’re delusional… an inveterate Pollyanna.”

“You haven’t yet betrayed my trust, Mr. Barrow.” Richard kisses him, and Thomas sighs.

“One day I might. But I’ll try not to let that be today.”

“Shall we go down, then?”

“I haven’t heard the dinner gong, have you?” Richard blushes at what could have been a blunder, and Thomas grins, briefly forgetting his own nervousness. “You know what… perhaps between the two of us, we’ll do all right. Just…” He stumbles, balking at the thought of how needy it’s going to sound, but in the end he swallows his pride. “Just promise you won’t leave me alone in a room with these people.”

Richard smiles gently. “I promise.”

“Right.” Thomas takes a fortifying breath. “Now, while we wait for the gong, do you think you can kiss me without creasing my shirt?”

“I’ll certainly try.”

Once they get downstairs, things take on a surreal, dream-like quality. It’s hard not to feel like a stranger in his own body while moving like a guest, a proper guest, in a house like this, especially when he finds himself at the table - seated between the ladies, naturally - taking civilised scoops of the mushroom bouillon, while Richard makes amiable conversation with Lady bloody Leveson-Gower of the prominent Leveson-Gower family whose tendrils reach into every echelon of English politics and diplomacy.

Over the first thirty minutes or so it’s already become clear to him that Lady Leveson-Gower, unlike Lady Greville, possesses all the poise and sophistication that come with old money, but none of the aloofness. During the introductions she had steered clear of making inquiries about Thomas’s livelihood, surely to spare him embarrassment, but that brand of courtesy was wasted on him. He could put on a suit and use his upstairs voice for a couple hours so as not to put any noses out of joint, but he drew the line at sweeping his credentials under the rug - he’d gone through too much to reach the rung he had to hide it simply because a Leveson-Gower might take offense at spooning soup alongside a butler.

“Downton, Yorkshire, milady,” he’d said when she asked where he resided, and added unprompted, “Perhaps you know Lord and Lady Grantham, of Downton Abbey. I am the butler there.”

He’d meant it as a test, perhaps, a deliberate truth to gauge the temperature of the room, and she’d responded graciously.

“I don’t personally, I’m sorry to say,” she’d replied, “but I know of them, and I’ve heard the estate is flourishing. I’m always impressed by peers who preserve their family estates despite the changing times.”

On their way into the dining room, Thomas had caught Richard’s eye, half-expecting to be met with chagrin or disappointment about the faux-pas, committed even before the first course was served, but Richard had only smiled and nodded.

Almost like he was _proud._

Thomas is still puzzling over that as he eats his soup absent-mindedly and Richard and Lady Leveson-Gower trade gossip on the Prince of Wales’s latest exploits with Mrs. Dudley Ward. He tries to look as little as possible at the butler and the footman, who reminds him of Albert and makes him feel further removed from Downton than he even did when he was at the Stiles residence. What would they all say when they saw him now? What would _Carson -_

 _Don’t worry about Beatrice’s staff,_ Richard had told him, in the same breath as informing him he’d accepted her dinner invitation. _They’re all people like us. The Greville household is well regarded in our circles - one of London’s best kept secrets._

 _I’m surprised she never tried to acquire you then,_ Thomas said.

 _Oh, try she did,_ Richard replied, without elaborating, and while the course of the conversation didn’t give Thomas the opportunity to question him further, he’d filed it away for a later time.

He narrowly escapes dropping his spoon and making a ruckus as he finishes the bouillon - that’s three courses left to go - and realises the conversation hasn’t yet shifted away from the King’s oldest son and heir.

“My friends at number ten tell me poor Stanley’s losing quite a bit of sleep over David’s puerile transgressions,” Lady Leveson-Gower says. “Talk of late nights in his office, making calls and writing letters. Is it true they’re trying to send him on another tour to try and separate him from the Dudley Ward woman?”

“I haven’t heard that,” Richard says, “but if it’s true, I wonder what makes Baldwin think another tour will achieve what previous tours and cavalcades of appropriate young ladies have failed to do for the past ten years. Say what you will about the Prince of Wales, but once he loses his head to another man’s wife, he’s quite loyal and devoted.” He keeps a straight face through it all, taking a perfectly-timed sip of wine at the end to give them a moment to appreciate his wit. Thomas can’t decide whether he’d like to roll his eyes or lean across the table and kiss him senseless.

“He’s a silly, frivolous peacock,” Lady Leveson-Gower says without mincing words. “Completely unfit to shoulder this great task he’s been born to perform. If he were anyone but the heir apparent, I might find his antics amusing, but I shudder to think of the mockery he will make of himself and our monarchy by extension once he ascends to the throne.”

“What is your opinion of our monarchy, Mr. Barrow?” Lady Greville asks unexpectedly as the soup plates are taken away, and Thomas startles at the question. Until now, he hasn’t spoken much or been asked for his opinion on anything, not even the soup or the wine selection, let alone something of national interest like the bloody Windsors.

“Well,” he begins, and even the way he says that sounds dumb to his ears, “it’s quite a contentious issue, milady. A girl I work with, Daisy, she’s a republican, while the rest of the household is overwhelmingly pro-monarchy, so that leads to some heated debates at the dinner table -”

“Indeed, very fascinating, but I was asking for _your_ opinion.”

Thomas blushes at the interruption, humiliated and angered, staring at his plate and waiting for the red haze to clear. If he speaks now, he’ll regret it, he knows it.

“Really, Bee,” Lady Leveson-Gower says, “is it necessary for you to be so harsh? Mr. Barrow wasn’t finished speaking. It’s common to interrupt someone, and unbefitting a hostess besides.”

Lady Leveson-Gower’s defense is almost more humiliating than Lady Greville’s tongue lashing, but Thomas swallows his words here too.

“Oh, dear.” Lady Greville sighs. She and her paramour seem to be a study in contrasts, from their attitudes down to their features: biting versus accommodating, blonde versus brunette. “Have I offended you, Mr. Barrow?”

He looks up, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to say no, but when he sees the challenge in her eyes, he changes his mind. “You have, milady. But I’ve been on the other side often enough myself, and I know how easily it’s done.”

She smiles, and gives a small nod, and he can feel the chill lifting. “I apologise all the same. Constance always tries to get me to behave, but I'm afraid I'm a lost cause.”

“Those are your words, not mine,” her friend says, and it sounds like a conversation they’ve had before. “But you have a hot temper, Bee, and sometimes you let it get the better of you.”

“Thankfully you are usually there to put me in my place,” Lady Greville says, smiling, and Thomas wonders if Richard too is feeling like he is watching a cordial tennis match. “Did I tell you Mr. Barrow put me in my place as well yesterday?”

Lady Leveson-Gower - whatever Richard says, Thomas can’t bring himself to think of her as _Constance,_ not even in the privacy of his own mind - raises an amused eyebrow. “Did he, now? What for?”

Lady Greville gives Thomas what can only be described as a conspiratorial look. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she says to his relief. “Suffice it to say I probably deserved the scolding.”

Thomas ducks his head. “Actually… I was surprised you invited us to dinner after that. Very kind of you to open your door again after I insulted you in your own home.”

Lady Leveson-Gower looks from one to the other with a mischievous twinkle in her eye that suddenly reminds Thomas of the late Dowager, God have her soul. “Poor Richard, it really sounds like these two put on quite a show of fireworks yesterday - I don't know whether to envy you, or thank my lucky stars I wasn't in your place.” 

“They did, but I reckon it worked out well, in the end,” comes Richard's answer, and he's looking straight at Thomas as he says it, with so much warmth in his eyes Thomas needs to distract himself with a sip from his own glass. 

“To go back to your question about the monarchy, milady -” he starts, more to make up for his slip than anything else, “I wouldn’t call myself an antiroyalist, but I do have a couple objections to the antiquated rule of primogeniture, among other things. I’d be happy to elaborate, if you’d like me to.”

“I think that answer quite suffices for now,” Lady Greville says, smiling, as the next course is brought in. “Truth be told, Mr. Barrow, I can think of more interesting topics to discuss. I asked that question for the same reason I invited you to dinner - I wanted to see what sort of cloth you are cut from. If you’d hold up under pressure.”

Thomas takes this admission to mean he passed the test. All well and good, but he does wonder how many more friends and relatives of Richard’s he is going to have to impress along the way.

From there the rest of the dinner proceeds smoothly, thank God, and Thomas realises to his dismay he's actually enjoying himself, enjoying the company and conversation. Enjoying the food and wine, too, it has to be said. It’s not often that he gets to sample the more refined flavours that are reserved for upstairs consumption. When the time comes for Lady Greville and Lady Leveson-Gower to go through, with the footman trailing behind, the tablecloth is taken away and the butler - a fellow who is coming to the end of his tenure, from the look of his arthritis-infected hands - pours brandy, presents cigars.

“We're doing this properly all the way, then?”

“When in Rome, Mr. Barrow…”

Thomas takes the brandy, but refuses the proffered cigar. “I’ll stick with cigarettes, thank you,” he says, reaching for his case and lighter.

It takes him a moment to register that Richard does opt for the cigar. “Don’t bother, Stevens,” he says as the butler struggles with the lighter, “Mr. Barrow will lend me a hand, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stevens mumbles, “I’ll leave you.” And he does, departing from the room and softly closing the door behind him.

“Well, Mr. Barrow, if you’d be so kind?” Richard grins, and Thomas gets up, taking his glass with him as he approaches. When he holds the flame to the end of Richard’s cigar, and feels the brush of Richard’s fingers as he reaches up to steady his hand, Thomas almost pulls his hand back as if he’s burnt it.

“Sorry,” he mutters, while the flame catches and an orange glow touches Richard’s features. “Force of habit.”

“I know. It takes a while to get used to.” Richard gestures at the nearby chair Lady Greville just vacated. “Sit by me.”

Thomas complies, swaying a little on his feet. His stomach is full, his head is light, and the brandy warms his throat and chest as it goes down. He watches, mesmerised, as Richard fills his mouth with smoke. “This isn’t your first cigar, I take it.”

“It isn’t, no.”

Thomas waits, but nothing else seems to be forthcoming. “You’re not going to tell me more?”

“Not tonight.”

Thomas doesn’t insist. He leans back in his chair and sighs, letting his eyes wander around the room for what is really the first time. “That him?” he asks, nodding at an oil portrait of a moustached man in military regalia that has pride of place in the room. “The master of the house?”

“Yeah, that’s Ian.” Richard balances the cigar on an ashtray and opens his jacket, loosens his tie. “It was painted shortly before the war, I think.”

Thomas takes a sip of brandy. “And your, ah, affair was still existent by the start of the war?”

“No, the affair fizzled out years earlier, but we stayed friends. I’d still visit occasionally and enjoy their company, a few games of chess.”

“You haven’t told me why you never took a job here.”

Richard smokes thoughtfully, scratching his cheek. “Wouldn’t’ve felt right, I suppose, mixing work and pleasure. And after the war, I had my eye on Buckingham Palace. I didn’t even visit Beatrice for a while, I’m ashamed to say - Ian’s passing had sucked all the joy out of this house, for me.”

“Perhaps you’ll get a second chance soon,” Thomas suggests, and nods at the door through which the butler exited. “Seems to me it won't be long before Stevens is put out to pasture.” 

“Don't let him hear you say that. And I have no training as butler.”

“I'm sure you'd catch up in no time. I could give you a few pointers.” He's trying hard to keep a lighthearted tone, even though talking about the future like this makes his throat tighten in ways he doesn't care to question. 

“Of course,” Richard murmurs, strangely subdued. “But who knows what life holds in store.”

Thomas has an unpleasant taste on his tongue - it can’t be from the brandy, which is excellent - and takes another sip to get rid of it. This all feels like a dream still, a lucid dream. “We used to have a maid years ago,” he suddenly says, not sure why he’s thinking of Ethel when he hasn’t thought of the girl in years. “Quite the little princess when she first came to us. Thought her shit smelled sweeter than others’. Needless to say, we took it upon ourselves to take her down a couple notches.”

“What happened to her?”

“She finished what we started - took herself all the way down to the bottom.” Thomas is silent for a moment. “Though I reckon she got a little help and turned things around in the end. Mrs. Hughes still receives the occasional letter.”

“Why are you telling me about her?”

“I don’t exactly know.” Thomas sighs and puts out his cigarette. “Doesn’t feel quite right, does it, for us to sit here and enjoy all these comforts? Pride comes before a fall.”

Richard smiles slightly, Thomas’s words extinguishing something in his eyes. “You have both the pride and the shame of the working class, Mr. Barrow,” he says softly. “Would you’ve preferred our attempt at stew over tonight’s waterfowl?”

“Wouldn’t _you_?”

“I…” Richard seems unable to find the words for a moment. 

“It's just… You are so different here, Dick. And you make it look very good, but it isn't you. It isn't what we are, you and I.”

“Thomas, the farmhouse was an escape, a wonderful escape, but this… this is the real life, I -”

“Are you telling me that what we lived there wasn't _real_?”

“No, of course I'm not saying that - God, I'm going at this all wrong…”

He is deflating, Thomas can see it happening and hates himself for causing it. On the one hand, it feels like he’s presuming, telling a man he’s met a grand total of three times over the course of a year who he is or isn’t, but he feels in his gut that he’s close to the truth with this.

“Maybe the farmhouse was an escape,” he continues softly, “but it sure as fuck felt more real than… all this.” He gestures at the room at large. “ _You_ were more real there than I’ve ever seen you, and I don’t think you even realise it. I’ve never seen you more relaxed, more happy, than when you were loving on that stray chicken, or chopping firewood, or, yeah, peeling taters for that damn stew.”

It takes Richard another minute to untie his tongue, which must be some sort of record. “Damn, Thomas, when you decide to speak your mind, you don’t hold back, do you?”

“I’m sorry, I -”

“Don’t you apologise. Don’t you fucking dare apologise.” Richard takes a last drag of his cigar and then puts it out, even though he hasn’t smoked half of it. “ _I_ am sorry. For making you go through with this.”

“Don’t say that.” Thomas reaches across and puts his hand on Richard’s knee. “I’ve enjoyed myself, truly I have. I’m happy to be anywhere, as long as I’m with you.”

Richard swallows and blinks rapidly, casting his gaze down to look at Thomas’s hand, covering it with his own a moment later. “D’you want to go to the hotel?” he asks thickly. “We can be out of here in ten minutes if you do.”

“No,” Thomas says slowly, shaking his head. “I want to go through and rejoin the ladies, because it would be bad manners not to, and if I have to play the gentleman for an evening, I’d sooner do it well and not confirm any preconceived notions about the unsophisticated lower class. Not after I put all that effort in eating like a posh person.” Richard’s muffled chuckle tells him he’s on the right path. “And,” he adds, “I want to go up to that room as soon as it’s polite and have you fuck me in front of that mirror.”

Richard lets out a strangled little noise. “Blimey, Thomas…”

“What, you thought seeing you smoke _that_ would leave me unaffected? You can’t be that naive.”

“Call it payback for all those times you made me pine for your mouth by smoking a cigarette,” Richard mutters, and cracks a smile when Thomas laughs.

“Well,” Thomas says lightly, “joke’s on you. Hope I gave you something nice to ponder until we get to excuse ourselves from the ladies. How even are we supposed to pass the time? Playing rummy, parlour games? Reciting poetry? I’d like to go in prepared.”

Richard coughs. “No, I -”

“Perhaps you could teach me chess,” Thomas says impulsively, and blushes when Richard gives him a wide-eyed look of surprise. “I mean… I know you haven’t played in ages, but -”

“You’d like me to?” Richard asks quietly, tentatively. “Really?”

There’s something fragile in Richard’s question that strikes Thomas in the heart, but he keeps his response deliberately lighthearted. “Well, I can't promise I'll be a very patient student, and you'll probably want to make me swallow my tie before the end, but… yeah.” 

“And I can't promise I'll be a particularly good teacher, but I'll try my best.” He doesn't add _for you_ , but they can both hear it, loud and clear. 

God, they're going to drown in their own mawkishness at this point. Richard can blame it on the brandy, but what's Thomas's excuse? 

Time to take it down a notch. He squeezes Richard's knee and glances at the ashtray. “I can’t believe you’re leaving half a Dunhill cigar unsmoked, by the way. Wasteful, Mr. Ellis.”

“Wait.” Richard produces a kerchief from his pocket, wraps the cigar in it. “Why don’t I save this for later?”

“That’s more like it, Mr. Ellis. I like a man who plans ahead.”

They get up and Richard rings for Stevens, who proceeds them to the drawing room. When they enter, Lady Greville is at the piano, playing one of those dreamy, romantic pieces that usually have pretentious French names like nocturne or etude, while Lady Leveson-Gower reclines on a nearby chaise longue. Barely has Stevens left again or Thomas feels Richard’s hand on the small of his back, directing him to a sofa facing the piano. They sit, and listen to the lady of the house play the final bars of the piece. Admittedly, he doesn’t know much about it, but it seems to Thomas that she plays quite well.

“Brava, darling,” Lady Leveson-Gower says softly. “You do Maestro Chopin proud.”

“I'm glad to hear it, but Chopin isn't the one I aim to impress,” Lady Greville says, with a fond look in her direction, before turning to Thomas and Richard. “Your arrival is most auspicious, gentlemen. Richard, dear, I was telling Constance of that song you used to sing for us, Ian’s favourite. Do you remember? The melancholy piece that always made him tear up.”

Thomas can feel Richard shifting slightly beside him. “ _Barbara Allen_.”

“That’s the one. Could you be persuaded to sing it for us? I have such a craving to hear it.”

“Oh… it’s, I don’t -”

From Richard’s stammering, it’s clear he’s reluctant, or at the very least unenthused about the idea of performing, but Lady Greville doesn’t capitulate so easily.

“I know, it doesn’t make for happy listening, but Ian loved it so,” she says, only to go on to add, with a sly glance at Thomas, “I’m sure Cheekbones would like to hear it too.”

Thomas can’t but bow to her cleverness, although the nickname gives him pause. When Richard sighs and starts to get up, however, he reaches out and stays him. “Don’t let her force you,” he murmurs under his breath, because yes, they've known each other for only a year, but he's been noticing more and more how Richard has a habit of going out of his way to please people he cares about, sometimes to his own detriment.

“It’s fine, Thomas,” Richard says, giving a small, reassuring smile. He squeezes Thomas’s hand before releasing it and approaching the piano behind which Lady Greville still thrones. “My voice isn’t warmed up, Beatrice, but I’ll give it my best so long as you accompany me. I don’t trust my fingers enough to do it myself.”

“I think I can manage that, darling.” She plays a few tentative notes, as if trying to remember how the piece goes, and then follows it up with a few scales while Richard hums along - to warm up his vocal chords, presumably - one hand placed on the piano. With the other, he opens his collar. Thomas doesn’t know why, but he catches himself holding his breath, his pulse speeding up when Richard nods at Lady Greville to indicate he’s ready to begin.

“'Twas in the merry month of May,  
When green buds all were swellin',  
Sweet William on his deathbed lay,  
For the love of Barbara Allen.”

The performance isn’t flawless - it starts off a little shaky, with Richard stumbling on one or two of the lyrics - but into the second verse his voice comes into its own, becomes warmer and fuller as it carries the melody, telling the story of hard-hearted Barbara Allen, who spurned her suitor in his dying hour and then herself perished of bitter regret.

The song and melody aren’t new to Thomas - it’s one of the better known folk songs - but he’s certain it’s never touched him as it touches him now, every note striking him in a place that feels like it’s been laid completely bare and defenseless. Having no musical talent himself, he’d enjoyed Dame Nellie Melba’s performance at Downton well enough, but at no point during the evening had her voice affected him in quite the same way as Richard’s is doing.

“When he was dead and laid in grave,  
She heard the death bells knellin',  
And every stroke to her did say:  
‘Hard-hearted Barb'ry Allen.’”

“‘Oh mother, oh mother, go dig my grave,  
Make it both long and narrow,  
Sweet William died of love for me,  
And I will die of sorrow.’”

Richard is not an ostentatious performer or showman. His body keeps a fixed posture and he makes no eye contact as he sings - his gaze focused on some distant point, unwandering, although at one point he closes his eyes, as if needing to brace himself against the imminent ending of Barbara and William’s story. His voice - a tenor? Thomas’s knowledge of these matters is shaky at best, but he reckons it’s a safe bet to call it that - slightly trembles, recovering just in time to sing the closing verses.

“Barb'ry Allen was buried in the old church yard,  
Sweet William was buried beside her;  
Out of William's heart, there grew a rose,  
Out of Barb'ry Allen's a briar.”

“They grew and grew in the old church yard,  
'Til they could grow no higher;  
At the end they formed a true lovers' knot,  
And the rose grew 'round the briar.”

Richard goes silent, the piano following a few moments later. Thomas takes a breath - what feels like the first in minutes. His heart aches and feels full, bursting with what he’s heard and seen and _felt._ Richard himself seems not quite present just yet, staring down at the floor with bowed head.

“That was very moving, Richard,” Lady Leveson-Gower says after a moment of silence. “Your voice suits that song very well.”

“Thank you,” murmurs Richard, but when he finally raises his eyes, he looks not at her but at Thomas. And so do the other two, Thomas realises, expecting a response from him. And he’d give one, he would, if he trusted his voice to do his bidding.

“I think we should give Mr. Barrow a moment to recover his wits,” Lady Leveson-Gower says with that twinkle again, and this time Thomas is glad for the offered reprieve. “Do you sing yourself?”

“Very badly, milady,” he says, “and only when no one is listening, or when there are other people singing with me and covering up my own inadequacy.”

“That makes two of us,” she says conspiratorially, and he musters a smile. “We prefer to sit and listen, don’t we?”

“Perhaps Richard will humour us with another song,” Lady Greville suggests, but Richard shakes his head.

“I’m afraid this is it from me tonight, Beatrice. I promised Thomas I’d take him on in a game of chess.”

“Oh, of course…” A shadow of an emotion passes over her face, but then she smiles and it’s as if it was never there. “You still know where to find the board and pieces, don’t you?”

A couple minutes later the board is set up, white against black, and once Richard has quietly the properties of each piece as well as a few basic moves, he folds his arms and grins at Thomas. “White begins.”

It only takes a few minutes for Thomas to realise that he may have bitten off more than he can chew, and it’s only Richard showing him the ropes, not even a proper game. Strategy games have never been a forte of his, he’s too impulsive, and if Richard wasn’t basically playing against himself, he’d be showing Thomas all corners of the board.

It also doesn’t exactly help keep his focus on the game that their knees keep touching under the table and their hands above it as they move the pieces, Richard once even going so far as to brush the back of Thomas’s hand and wrist, triggering gooseflesh all over his arm and making him want to follow Richard’s example and open his collar.

“You're not bored, are you?” Richard murmurs, in a voice that could melt steel. Only his eyes reveal that there's something else beneath the flirting. Worry that Thomas isn’t enjoying himself, maybe.

“I should be the one asking that. It can’t be very challenging, playing against the equivalent of a dull knife.”

“Don't say that. You’ll get there, Mr. Barrow.” 

“I’m not so sure, but I put myself in your hands all the same, Mr. Ellis.” He sees Richard swallowing, and adds, “That goes for chess and other things. As I told you earlier.”

“I… I remember.”

They’re both speaking in hushed tones, as if to protect this precious pocket of time and space they’re ensconced in. Lady Greville and Lady Leveson-Gower are engaged in a lively chat of their own, and don’t seem to be paying them the slightest attention. 

_It takes a while to get used to,_ Richard had said earlier, referring to this novel form of freedom, and he was right, but Thomas now finds it startlingly easy to let his guard down, much easier than it would have felt even just an hour ago, to the degree that he has to remind himself to keep some of it up at least. Because being able to express himself, to claim Richard as his somewhat publicly and let others _see…_ well, it’s intoxicating, and addictive, and all those things that will only make it harder to rein it all back in again once they leave this house.

When he makes a badly calculated move that costs him a bishop, and leaves his king exposed, Thomas knows his only option is to resign the game.

“Well,” he says, “granted, I’m new to chess, but I understand enough to know that that was not a long game by any standards. In my defense, I think my mind is starting to wander.” 

_I must be drunker than I thought, because I’m finding it harder and harder to not toss this chessboard to the floor and climb into your lap and cover you in kisses -_

“It’s funny, I feel the same way.” Richard starts clearing away the pieces. “I enjoyed this, though. Maybe… maybe we can do it again one day. At the farmhouse even, when we make it up there next.”

_When._

“Need a set first,” Thomas says, pretending his heart isn’t doing somersaults at the idea alone.

“Maybe Father Christmas will put one under the Christmas tree for you,” Richard says, “if you’re good. He’s going to keep it in mind, at any rate. Does anyone at Downton know how to play?”

“Downstairs? I doubt it.” And the last thing he wants on his mind right now is bloody _Downton_. “Do you think we could politely make our excuses now?”

“At this point I’m not sure I care about being polite,” Richard says, as he snaps the wooden box shut and gets up. “But yeah, I'd say we can.”

Richard puts the chess set back where he found it and they say their goodnights, Thomas thanking Lady Greville again for her hospitality as he won’t have the opportunity to do so in the morning - he’ll have to get up before dawn and rush back to Grantham House in time to serve Lady Mary breakfast.

Thank God there are no servants in sight as they go back upstairs, but Thomas still stumbles a bit when Richard starts undoing the buttons of his waistcoat _right there in the corridor,_ with a few feet still separating them from the privacy of the bedroom.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting a head start, Mr. Barrow,” he says, leaning in and kissing him, and well, from there it’s a short route to escalation.

By the time they enter the room, they've both shrugged out of their jackets. They lose their waistcoats and their ties and their shirts, in that order, and the only reason they still have their trousers and shoes on by the time they reach the bed is because they got distracted kissing.

“Forgot to lock the door,” Richard murmurs against his mouth as Thomas undoes his belt and his fly, and Thomas moans as he palms him through his trousers and feels that he is hard. “Thomas, I forgot -”

“I don’t care,” Thomas groans, and pulls Richard’s hands to his belt. “I need to feel you in me.”

Richard doesn’t need more incentive than that to forget about the bloody door, and they strip the rest of the way, performing no acrobatics this time as they climb into the bed.

“Lights,” Thomas orders, pulling away a moment from Richard’s mouth to reach for one of the bedside lamps, “I want to see every fucking thing.”

Richard does the same on the other side, taking a moment to find the switch and jumping a little when Thomas scoots up to him and reaches around to close a quickly-vaselined hand around him.

“Is this too direct?” Thomas murmurs in his ear, the words almost drowned out by Richard’s moan, and he kisses his shoulder. “I’m sorry if it is.”

“I recall telling you that you can be impetuous with me whenever the mood strikes.” Richard sucks in a breath as Thomas slowly rolls his wrist. “But where did you -”

“In the drawer by the bed. Planted it before dinner.”

“Clever. I like a man who plans ahead.” Thomas can feel it, can feel how tempted Richard is to fuck his fist, but then another urge seems to take over. “Oh, God… wait a moment, Thomas, I want -”

Thomas releases him and sets his hand on Richard’s hip instead, giving him a moment to catch his breath. “What is it, love?”

Richard rolls over on his back and then onto his other side, so they are facing each other. One of his hands finds Thomas’s waist. “Did you… what did you think of the song? Did I do all right?”

“I…” Damn it, it’s been almost two hours and he’s still as poorly prepared to describe his feelings about Richard’s performance as he was right after. 

As he tries to sort out his thoughts, he sees Richard's expression fall a little, even though the smile on his face barely wavers. “It was that bad, eh?” 

“No, it was…” 

“I’m sorry, forget I asked. I was just being vain.”

“Richard, for God's sake, give me a moment to find the words.” He takes a breath. “Sorry, I… I didn't mean to snap. Anyway, you're free to not believe me, and I hate to side with Lady Greville, but she was right to persuade you.” Damn it, the words feel so inadequate in his head, but if he doesn't say them now he'll never find the courage again. “I… I wouldn't have wanted to miss that for the world.”

“You should’ve been here on some nights before the war,” Richard reminisces. “This house in its heyday was a meeting place for talent. Far better singers than me have performed here, people who now rake in superlative reviews at the West End. You got the short straw tonight by having to make do with me.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s true. I’m just a churl who thinks he can carry a half decent tune.” He grins in an attempt to give his words a humorous slant. “I try, but the song would’ve benefited from a better voice than mine.”

“Not for me,” Thomas replies, and he means it. “I wouldn't have gotten all weepy over Barbara bloody Allen if it weren't you singing it, all right?”

It's Richard's turn to be left speechless, even if only for a second. “I… Yeah. I’ll take that,” he murmurs eventually, tilting his head and kissing him.

“So… you’re sure of this?” Richard asks when he pulls away, and he glances towards the foot end of the bed, and the large standing mirror perfectly positioned there. “About wanting to watch while…”

“While you fuck me like it’s been more than a year… which it has been.” Thomas nods and passes him the vaseline. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“How do you want to... Do you want to ride me again?” Richard asks, and for a moment, Thomas is back in his room at Downton a year earlier, doing his very best not to wake the whole household while getting himself off on the King’s valet’s cock.

“No,” he says, kissing him, feeling a different urge inside him that yearns to be satisfied. “I want you behind me, like a stallion mounting a mare. Unless… you’d rather be face to face?”

Richard looks slightly dazed already, but he still manages a rakish grin. “I’ll see your face in the mirror, I reckon.”

Thomas grins back, feeling a tug of anticipation in his belly. “Well, then,” he murmurs, and leans back slightly, expectantly. “Ready when you are, Mr. Ellis.”

Richard cottons on at once. “On your knees,” he says, and Thomas gets into position with his face turned towards the mirror, leaning up on his hands as he watches Richard advance behind him. Their eyes briefly meet, and then Richard seems to get distracted, perhaps understandably, by the stretch of Thomas’s back before him, the spread of his legs. “Christ,” he mutters, and draws his palm over one of Thomas’s buttocks, and a moment later Thomas feels his thumb near his cleft. He shivers. He is not nervous, but he also doesn't feel as devil-may-care reckless as he had at Downton: back then it’d seemed like a certainty he was never going to see Mr. Ellis again, and that had allowed him to be more free, in a way. He'd wanted that man and he had taken him, without allowing for self-doubt or shyness. 

One year later, it’s quite a different story. Here they find themselves, on what could possibly be their last night together for who knows how long, and he wants this to be good. He wants to make Richard feel good, and give him something to put a smile on his face in the months that lie ahead.

“Go on,” he breathes, because he’s that eager for Richard to start, “make me ready for you.”

He expects a finger, slightly braces himself for one, but sees instead Richard leaning down, both hands atop his buttocks, and then -

The first tentative, almost shy brush of Richard’s tongue against his hole drags a gasp from his throat, and he can see his own wide-eyed gaze of surprise in the mirror as Richard leans up, looking almost as surprised by what he’s just done.

“Is - is that all right? I prob’ly should’ve asked…”

“Fuck, 's more than all right.” Richard's voice is so low and rough already that it just makes him want to expose himself more. He bends his arms to lean his weight on his elbows, arching his back and offering his arse. He wouldn’t have asked for this of his own accord, because it’s not something all blokes enjoy doing, but now that Richard is offering he can't think of anything else. “You can be a little impetuous with me too.”

Being down on his elbows makes it harder to keep his head lifted up and watch, but damn it, if the reward is seeing Richard bury his face against his arse, he’ll happily risk straining a muscle or two. “Fuck,” he groans when Richard leans even lower and gives him a long lick from the root of his balls upwards. “I won’t lie, Dick, I’m really fucking chuffed you’re one of those blokes who get off on doing that.”

“You had any doubts on that score?”

“Some, yeah. Oh, right _there_ -” He lets out his loudest moan yet as Richard steadies him with both hands and laps at him attentively and slowly, around and over his hole. “Glad I was wrong,” he wheezes, and he _feels_ Richard’s goddamn chuckle. It seems like he gave him something to prove, because Richard is taking his sweet time getting around to doing anything but giving lazy, leisurely licks, and Thomas doesn’t care for that one bit, but he tries to be patient, to give himself over and put himself into Richard’s able hands just as he promised.

But oh, God, it’s taking forever and his neck and starting to tire already and he has to put his head down for a moment, moaning into his arms as Richard increases the force of his licking slightly only to then close his lips over his hole and suck. Richard is giving him a taste of his own medicine, Thomas dazedly thinks, for all those times he didn’t move quickly enough for Richard’s liking. But eventually Richard’s patience, too, runs out and Thomas feels his tongue nudging at him, zeroing in and pressing slightly. He moans gratefully, trying not to jerk his hips or push back against Richard’s face, but he needn't worry, apparently, because Richard's left hand moves from his arse to his flank and presses slightly, as if _inviting_ Thomas to do just that, to chase Richard's mouth as much as he wants to.

And once he _does..._

“Oh, fuck,” Thomas moans when Richard’s tongue enters him proper for the first time, and tenses his thighs as he rubs himself against Richard’s chin, “fuck, Richard, _yes_.”

Richard moans in response - he can hardly do anything else - and squeezes Thomas’s buttocks, caresses his hips and then his flanks again, perhaps using his wandering hands as a distraction as he presses his tongue a little deeper after a moment of rest. And Thomas - well, he is starting to feel like he’s on fire, to tell the truth of it, in his gut and between his legs and all along his spine and everywhere, really. God, how long has it been since someone wanted to do this, and do it _well_?

“Fuck,” he grunts, because his vocabulary tends to shrink when he’s being speared tortuously slowly by a bold, warm tongue, “fuck, Richard, gimme more a’that, please,” which is a sure sign he’s past the point of caring about his dignity.

_Oh, well - it’s not as if your dignity could save you from putting on airs tonight like a monkey in a dinner jacket._

But the self-berating thought slips away quickly enough, his mind too distracted by the sensation of Richard sucking at his rim one last time before pulling back a little to catch his breath. 

“I'm not too rusty at this, I take it?” he rasps against Thomas's skin and Thomas would gladly come up with a prickly retort, but he's missing that tongue already and the wetness between his arse cheeks sends another frisson of heat along his spine - he can feel his muscles relaxing, opening up, and he reaches behind with one hand to spread himself, marveling at the looseness he encounters.

“There’s your answer,” he murmurs, and Richard lets out a breathless little chuckle. Thomas glances at the mirror, the first look he’s taken in minutes, and finds himself mesmerised by their disheveled appearances, the flush of arousal on Richard’s face matching his own. _Not so gentlemanly now,_ he thinks, and it’s a relief, to look into the mirror and see just them, Richard and Thomas, in their barest, most stripped-down forms. “See, Mr. Ellis, you’re not the only one who’s been practising these last few months.”

Richard gulps audibly. “And here I was thinking I could take all the credit,” he says, kissing the fingers Thomas has got inside himself, perhaps to reassure him he is being facetious.

“I’m glad I practised. Now I know what I did it for.” Thomas presses his fingers a little deeper for emphasis and hears Richard sigh.

“Oh God, please, love, I just need to -”, and then he starts again, slipping his tongue in alongside Thomas’s fingers. Thomas lets out a gasp of surprise and keeps his fingers instantly still as Richard licks between them and against his rim, the stretch just on the right side of overwhelming. He tries to say something, to babble some incoherent words of encouragement, but even that little won’t materialise. Instead, all that comes out as he lowers his head and buries his face against his bicep is a pathetic, high-pitched whine.

Richard’s hands are on the move again, too, restlessly traversing his rump, the backs of his thighs, knees, calves even. The only thing that’s steady and predictable is that tongue that’s only making slight movements within him, back and forth, slowly creating more room. Thomas does his best to keep his fingers stationary, but at this angle he can only sustain it for so long.

“Lemme take it from here,” Richard murmurs, when Thomas shifts slightly to try and get rid of the tremor running through his fatigued arm, and caresses his wrist. 

“I keep forgetting I'm not so agile anymore,” he sighs with relief, feeling his muscles thank him as he puts his weight on both elbows again. His brain is sluggish, the words leaving his mouth thick and heavy like treacle, but it's a little easier to think without Richard's tongue overwhelming him with pleasure. “Oi, where are you going?”

“I was just getting this,” Richard smiles at him in the mirror as he opens the tin of vaseline and coats his fingers, the sight making Thomas’s gut churn with anticipation. He is not the least bit disappointed, though, when Richard leans down and continues licking at him like he’s in no hurry at all to move things along, even making those soft little noises at the back of his throat that leave no doubt as to whether he’s getting enjoyment out of the doing like Thomas is out of the getting, and it’s that thought that stokes the fire in Thomas’s belly as much as anything.

Eventually Richard pulls away, and gently places one hand against Thomas’s back, as he slips the other between Thomas’s cheeks and presses in slightly with two fingers at once, a calculated risk given all that preceded this. Thomas grasps at the covers and shifts some of his weight back to his knees to encourage more, and he gets it, Richard’s fingers curving slightly in him to breach even more easily. Thomas feels the pressure increasing from within, never uncomfortable, not even when Richard crosses and uncrosses his fingers, twisting clockwise and then counterclockwise as he opens and closes his fingers continuously, giving himself more room to work. They’ve gone mostly quiet, Thomas suddenly realises, just Richard breathing behind him and the sounds his fingers make moving back and forth, and it’s strangely intimate somehow, the quiet, the meticulous, patient purposefulness with which Richard is making him ready.

That all changes, of course, once Richard decides it’s time to up the ante and finds that spot within without much probing at all, and chuckles when Thomas lets out a soft cry that rips the silence apart. The rhythm of his strokes changes after that, a firm, continuous pumping of his wrist, his fingers spreading Thomas at the rim, finding his prostate every few thrusts, enough to make him gasp and tremble on his legs but not to tip him over the point of no return or even build a steady flame.

All the same, his cock is heavy and swollen between his legs, and at times he can feel Richard's own stark erection against his backside, but Richard remains patient irregardless, even as he finally relents and adds another finger to the first two. He slows down the speed of his thrusts temporarily to give Thomas the chance to adjust, however he increases the pressure on Thomas prostate, and it's torture, exquisite mind-melting torture.

“Fuck, Richard,” he gasps between surges of pleasure, “I hope you know I'm dripping all over these fancy bedcovers,” because he is and they aren't even fucking yet, and that's Richard's accomplishment.

“I noticed,” Richard says, voice tight, and there's an undercurrent of smugness Thomas supposes is entirely earned. “I am watching you, Thomas. It's a beautiful sight. Makes me proud and humble at the same time, seeing you like this.”

“Only you, Ellis,” Thomas grins, and moans as Richard spears him with those three fingers, “only you could say something like that while you're massaging a man's fucking prostate.”

“I say what’s in my heart, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas looks up into the mirror and sees himself rocking back and forth on his knees, chasing Richard’s fingers in abandon, which he hadn’t even realised he’s started doing. He almost doesn’t recognise his own face like this, distorted with lust as it is. Richard looks calm, almost serene by comparison, his movements calculated rather than urgent, and Thomas hates it, hates that he’s so _patient._

“Richard,” he grates out, “what’s it gonna take for you to stop this torture and start buggering me already?”

“Just your word, Mr. Barrow,” Richard says, with a smile that’s just a hair off angelic, and Thomas laughs, breathless. God, he’s half out of his mind and it’s glorious.

“That easy, huh?” He surges back, wanting, needing, and swears he can feel Richard’s knuckles against his rim as he buries those fingers deep. “Jesus Christ, I really need you to take me, or I’ll just keep fucking myself on your hand ‘til I come.”

Richard chuckles and pulls out, slicking himself with that same hand. “You should see yourself, Thomas.”

“I see plenty.”

“From this angle, I mean.” Thomas feels a finger, a thumb maybe, brushing at his hole, and shifts slightly on his knees, resisting the urge to touch himself.

“Describe it to me, then.”

“So you can tease me some more for gushing?” Richard grins, and Thomas feels the head of his cock pressing against him, just for a moment and then - “I don’t think so, Mr. Barrow.”

“But I -” Thomas _wants_ to look as Richard pushes in inch by inch, but it’s all too much and all he manages is a glance from the corner of his eye. “I love when you gush.”

“Hmm.” Richard takes his hand off his cock and sets it on Thomas’s hip as he presses in deeper. “Are you quite sure of that?”

 _“Yes.”_ Thomas doesn’t manage anything cleverer than that. “Gush to me all you want, please…”

“I will, darling, don’t you worry,” Richard says in a soothing tone that distracts him nicely when the stretch begins to burn a little. “Only not right away, I think.” 

“Why not?” and it’s a proper, quite pathetic whine, but he couldn’t care less - 

Almost timidly, Richard admits, “Because I love how you said ‘please’ just now and it’d make me happy hearing it again.” 

_God._ A part of him whispers these are not the parts they usually play - for Christ’s sake, it was Richard begging for orders only the day before - but then again, who’s to say he can’t enjoy this too? Who’s to say he can’t let himself be taken care of, when Richard is clearly relishing the chance?

“Please, Dick,” he murmurs, just as Richard slowly bottoms out, and he takes a few moments to steady himself, breathing through the burn. “How’s it feel?” 

“It’s -” Interestingly, Richard seems to be at a loss for words, but with him, it’s never for long. “Incredible, Thomas. I feel like I could melt into you.” 

“You prepared me so well, love. I’m very lucky.” He can actually feel Richard _twitch_ inside him as soon as he finishes saying that last part.

“Who’s gushing now, huh,” Richard growls, and keeps Thomas’s hips steady with his hands as he pulls back almost all the way and then claims him anew. He is careful still, making sure not to force anything, but after the first few shallow strokes he gains in confidence some, his hands still holding Thomas in place as he increases the length of his thrusts, moving more smoothly. “How’s this,” he breathes, his fingers digging possessively into Thomas’s hips. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“‘s Good, Dick, ‘s perfect.” Thomas tries to keep as still as he can, the effort showing on his face and in the corded muscles of his arms. “Fucking me so well, love.”

“Are you sure?” One of Richard’s hands now travels up Thomas’s back, tracing his spine, caressing the back of his neck. Thomas closes his eyes and practically purrs. “Am I mounting you like you wanted?”

“ _Yes,_ Richard, fuck -” For a moment, Thomas is sure Richard will pull back his hand again without touching his hair, but then he feels those fingers on the back of his scalp, burrowing under his hair, and he moans with bliss. “God, yes, touch me, please -”

Richard never goes so far as to pull at Thomas’s hair - Thomas doesn’t expect him to - but he indulges him with a little tug as he presses his cock in deep, and Thomas hears a breathy, honest to God _mewl_ issuing from his throat. “That’s my tomcat,” Richard murmurs, and grins, as he scratches slightly at Thomas’s scalp. “God, you’re so sensitive here… makes me feel better about how I lose it every time you put your mouth to my chest.”

“We both have our weaknesses, I s’pose.” Thomas’s eyes roll back slightly into his head as Richard gives his hair another little tug. “I don’t mind you knowing mine.”

“God.” Richard straightens back up, retaking Thomas’s hips between his hands and pulling them against his. “Thomas, I - can you take more? I need to fuck you harder.”

“Thought you’d never fucking ask.”

Richard doesn’t need more permission than that; he pulls back all the way, almost to the point of slipping out, then slams back in with such force that Thomas slides even closer to the end of the bed. And then he does it again, and again, establishing a relentless rhythm that at times makes it hard for Thomas to even just catch his breath: he can feel every thrust up to his fucking stomach and it’s perfect.

“Like this,” Richard grits out, and Thomas can’t work out if that’s a question or not until he repeats it. “Thomas, like this?”

“Uh-huh,” he reacts, because it’s the best he can do under the circumstances, and gasps as he is jostled by the next thrust hitting home. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly he’s struck by the contrast of what he’s seeing in the mirror and how prim and proper they were earlier that evening, and for some reason it’s pushing him that closer to the edge. His knees feel numb at this point and so do his fingers, clenched into the bedcovers, but damn it, he’ll see this through.

“Wish you could’ve - fucked me like this - on that damn dinner table,” he manages, the words only increasing Richard’s ardour as he expected. “Fuck, Richard, I’m getting close -”

“Yes, Thomas, fuck -” Richard pants, tightening his grip so much Thomas thinks - _hopes -_ there will be bruises. “Do you like it rough?” Thomas nods. “Say it.”   
  
“I fucking love getting it rough - from you.”

“God, love - d’you need my hand?”

“I - I don’t think so,” Thomas stammers, because he can already feel it building in his belly. “J-just keep -”

He has to stop talking at this point, because all of a sudden it’s happening quickly, each of Richard’s thrusts hitting him just right, and he feels like he’s about to come apart on this man’s cock -

“Richard,” he gasps, “oh -” And it’s like an explosion, the release starting at the base of his spine, rapidly expanding, and then his cock twitches and he moans with relief as the first spurt leaves him forcefully, painting a long wet trail on the silks they’re defiling. Richard’s eyes are glued to it too, and he doesn’t let up, grunting as he continues fucking every last drop out of him through his own orgasm.

He drapes himself over Thomas’s back once he’s finished, wrapping one arm around his chest. “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, and even the brush of his lips against Thomas’s ear is almost too much to bear, but once that passes he can’t resist turning his head and kissing him. The air is heavy with the smell of their sweat and spent arousal. 

They stay like that for a while, managing to break out of their stupor only when Richard definitely slips out. “Lie you down, c’mon,” he murmurs, and he even minds the wet spot as he guides Thomas to lower himself to the bed and get comfortable in his arms. He’s sticky and very nicely sore and he doesn’t want to think about anything else, but damn it, he owes Mary Crawley one for this.

“You’re smiling,” Richard murmurs.

“So’re you, Mr. Ellis. Grinning like a fool who just had a good shag.”

Richard chuckles. “Well,” he says low, “I am, and I did. So that explains it, I s’pose. What’s your excuse?”

Thomas sighs, and pulls Richard closer, to make sure he doesn’t get any thoughts into his head about moving from this position. He hesitates briefly, but in the end decides to take a page out of Richard's book, and reply in earnest. “I think… I'm just happy.”


End file.
